


pressure points

by pan_dora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Blood and Violence, Chimeras, Contract Killer Stiles Stilinski, Dark steo, Death, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, M/M, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Stiles/Theo - Freeform, alternative au - contract killers, dark!fic, mature content, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_dora/pseuds/pan_dora
Summary: Stiles is presented with the opportunity of 58,5 million dollars for a single job. It's lucrative and impossible to decline. The catch? He has to kill twelve chimeras. It's a challenge, all right, but he's confident he can finish the job without any problems.Until he meets Theo Raeken and learns that their lives are irrevocably connected.





	1. heroin

He wonders what he’ll look like from a distance. A shadow within the shadows. Hidden underneath trees and thick clouds. A cold breeze sweeps through the forest, tugs at his clothes and bites the skin it reaches. Fuck winter. Severely. Snow sucks. The cold sucks harder – and don’t get him started on Christmas. He hates all these hypocritical human low lives pretending to love everyone; at least until they turn their back. The only good thing about December is how needy it makes people. The thought of facing Christmas without someone to hold is too terrifying for most of humanity. For some reason. It goes over his head. Doesn’t mean he’s not exploiting it.

Another gust of wind breaks off a branch. Stiles briefly glances to the left as a raven caws indignantly. Furrowing his brows, he tugs his coat tighter around him. The raven descents, lands on the frozen floor in graceful silence and cocks its head. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s curious. Without fear, it stalks closer. Almost like its aware, there’s nothing to worry about.

Stiles watches it for a while, amused by its confidence. “This is no food for you,” he whispers, and the raven stops, looks straight at him. For a split second, Stiles contemplates whether it is a real bird or not. It’s not like werecreatures have to be exclusively four-legged mammalians. Granted, he’s neither heard about nor seen a wereraven but it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing in the world.

Partially frozen leaves crunch under its little feet as it draws nearer. _Birds of the feather flock together._ He laughs at the irony of it and reaches out a gloved hand. Again, the raven scrutinises him. Neither of them moves for a matter of seconds, and the forest falls completely silent. He can’t help but think about his manic foster father. His superstition almost drove him out of his mind.

The raven spreads its wings and flutters onto his arm, talons cutting through his coat. It stings but only for a second. Stiles smiles as he bends his arm to move the creature closer. It caws almost affectionately when he traces its head with his fingertip. His foster father would most likely order a fifth exorcism if he saw him now. He always found something. Thinking back to it, Stiles wonders if the guy knew more than he’d let on. Seeing how the raven nestled against his finger, the thought doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

A gurgling sound destroys the solemn silence. The raven digs its talons into his arm before taking off with a shrill call. Surprising it stayed as long considering the godawful stench of faecal matter coming from the body near his feet. Then again, ravens do feed on carcasses, so, what did he expect?

Stiles narrows his eyes. The pain is fleeting, vague as opposed to the agony the woman on the ground goes through. He looks down, crosses his arms. “Will you die already?”

It’s cold and he misses his bed. He’d spent a month in Florida because of an indecisive client. New York feels like a freezer in comparison. At least the job was easy. He had the cougar wrapped around his little finger within a few hours. He invited her to dinner, then breakfast, pleasured her, made her feel safe. She’s pretty enough with the complex character of a doormat. Stiles has no clue why his client wants her dead. But he doesn't ask questions or wonders if she deserves death. Not when a personal vendetta makes him this much money.

Also, she shouldn't be surprised about the sudden end of her life. Any person who is stupid enough to let a total stranger waltz into their life the way she let him in had it coming. Nobody should hand out trust like candy.

She’s stubborn, Stiles has to give her that. Of course, she's not going to survive the aconite poisoning. He can’t leave either way since he needs to deliver the proof of her death to his client. Sighing, he crouches down next to her. The sharp stench of vomit ruins the fresh air even further. His mask doesn’t do jack shit. _Fantastic_. Exactly what he needs. But in all honesty, he doesn’t care if she suffocates on her own vomit as long as she fucking dies already.

This kind of bullshit happens when clients add their stupid little wishes for extra money. That’s how he ends up in the middle of a forest waiting for this thick-headed bitch to finally succumb to the poison. He’s never used monkshood before and he obviously miscalculated. If he ever considered repeating this, which is highly unlikely, he’ll put in double the amount of aconite. He doesn’t even understand why it had to be fucking poison. A job is a job, though. Of course, he could argue dead is dead and fake a suicide. But he delivers what is ordered. Even if it’s this goddamn unnecessary and laborious.

Stiles reaches for her thin scarf and tugs it loose. The police are going to wonder why she didn’t roll over since they won’t be finding any aconite. They might get suspicious. He’s not worried, never has been. Covering his trails comes as easy as breathing. The most important part of it is the manipulation of the scene. Nobody will suspect murder if they find a junkie in the forest who overdosed. They will find the woman alone, her bag with more heroin sitting next to her. They won’t find the scene for a late-night walk in the Bronx River Forest park. They won’t find any messages on her phone, won’t find an unknown contact. Calvin won’t exist. If anything, he will be a one-night-stand she met in a bar two nights before. He will be a guy the barkeeper may or may not remember.

Her blue eyes are wide. Pleading for help. Does she really expect it to work? Does she expect him to feel remorse? To feel pity for her? He doesn’t give a shit about her death – as long as she gets done with it in the next few minutes. Fucking hell. He really has better things to do with his time. Fucking monkshood. Fucking client requests.

Stiles pushes the sleeve of her blouse up. At least the payment is worth the bullshit he has to go through. There isn’t another job with which he’ll make two million dollars in forty-eight hours. Granted, he’s had a couple clients who have paid better. But it’s not like he is in urgent need of money. He has enough to stop without having to work a minute for the rest of his life. Still, quitting is ineligible. He’s desperate for all of this. The games he plays, the manipulation, the joy and happiness he rips away. He gives his targets a few enjoyable hours, hypes them up, makes them dance on their high only to cripple everything good. Their pain and terror right before their death is the prime reward. That’s why he’s doing this, and although monkshood gives him everything he wants, he’ll most likely never use it again. The smell of faeces and vomit combined pushes even him to his limits.

Stiles wraps her scarf above the mound of her bicep, tugs it tight, then rummages through his backpack. Et voila. He grins as he finds the syringe, flicks his gloved finger against the fragile glass.

With his smartphone propped up against her ribs for better lightning, he slaps the crook of her arm. At least, her veins work fast. They most likely make up for the lack of brain function. He still can’t believe how easy it was to gain her trust. She has been so desperate for attention, she threw herself at him after only a smile. Perhaps he should damn his puppy eyes a little less. After all, they work every single time regardless of the role he plays.

Without much preamble, Stiles injects the heroin. It’s enough to make an overdose reasonable. With her blood still pumping, it will spread and become her official cause of death. She is going to be just another junkie in the midst of New York City. Pathetic. Worthless. Forgotten after a few days.

Stiles grabs his phone, checks the time. Twelve fifteen a.m. If he takes the subway, he won’t be in his motel before two thirty. _Wonderful_.

A soft caw makes him look up. There, on a thick branch, sit three ravens. _Three for a funeral_. Another caw follows the first, and his eyes dart to the right. There are six ravens in total now. It's likely he ventured into their territory, yet, something about their appearance still causes him unease. It might be nothing more than the memory of his crazy foster father’s rants. _One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral, four for birth._ Stiles forces his gaze away, studies his target instead. Finally, she’s nothing more than a corpse on the cold December floor. Her eyes are empty, soulless as they stare at the dark sky above. _Meet your God._ Curling his lips into a disgusted line, he snaps a picture, sends it through the encrypted connection set up for these things.

Despite himself, Stiles glances in the direction of the ravens again. How did the rhyme continue? _Five for heaven, six for hell._

The phone vibrates in his hand. The ravens shoot upwards into the night sky.

 _Seven for the devil, his own self_.

Shaking his head, he opens the message he received. A confirmation of the transaction. Two million dollar more to his name. He rolls his shoulders and looks up one last time. No ravens to be seen. He’s not superstitious, it's most likely his sleep deprivation fucking with his mind.

 

“I thought I’m contractually obliged to take a week off?”

It makes sense, to be fair. Laying low sounds boring but that doesn’t make it any less necessary. The company he works for made abundantly clear nobody will come to the rescue when worse comes to worse. They don’t exist, so, the contract killers are going to rot in a cell for the rest of their lives. If they talk, they’re dead. Simple rules. Common sense, really. They can go whenever. Nothing binds them. _It’s a job like all the others._ But again, you talk, you die. Everything is written down in the contract Stiles has never bothered to read completely because his nameless, yet constantly annoyed contact reminds him every few phone calls anyway.

“Not when you are specifically requested for a job.” See? Another loophole he’s had no clue about. This is amazing.  

Stiles rolls onto his stomach, reaches for the can of energy drink on his nightstand and frowns when it comes up empty. The shit he has to put up with at ass o’clock in the morning. Seriously. What time is it? Did he even sleep? “Oh, so they specifically stated my name, Christopher?” No reaction. Again. This guy has nerves. They are in contact for around twenty months and he still doesn’t know his name. Well, Hacker Boy doesn’t know his either. He at least has his nickname to go by, though. _Mischief_. What a stupid idea. But he was under pressure to come up with a handle right then and there. Still better than Panther, he assumes.

He reaches for his private phone next. It’s a habit engraved after years of repetition. Muscle memory. He’s texted with Tara for almost eight years now. She’s sent him a message by accident, mixing up digits of another number. She’s a few years older and tells him everything despite not knowing who’s on the other side of the phone. It’s nice. Talking to someone without any strings attached or worry he’ll be busted by saying something odd. He’s texted her last night before his job asking what her plans on Christmas are, but she hasn’t answered yet. It’s not unusual. He still dreads her silence; even more than his contact, Tara is keeping his sanity in one piece.

A pen tabs against a desk in rapid succession. “No.” His tone is clipped. He sounds more annoyed than usual. Which is saying something because the guy always sounds like he’d rather do literally anything else. “They requested the best.” He hates complimenting Stiles more than he hates his job. The payment is one of the reasons the middlemen don’t complain. For every successful job, the money is split through three. The company and the respective contact get a quarter each. The one who get their hands dirty receives the other two. It’s surprisingly fair. Thing is, nobody is here because of the payment alone. They are all working for them because it’s better than the alternative. Nobody wants to go to prison. Although they are free to leave at any time, nobody does. They know how to keep their employees on a short leash.

Sometimes Stiles wonders what his contact did to end up here.

He pushes his blanket off, scrambles to his feet. “Silver is the best.” Cold creeps up his feet and legs. He shudders, internally cusses New York in December and this goddamn motel owner who is too cheap to pay for proper heating.

The other huffs out a breath. “The best is relative. He might have finished the most jobs, but his methods are sloppy. The clean-up crew had to go after him three times in the last month alone.” Nobody knows exactly who those people are. Sometimes Stiles gets the feeling nobody knows anything. Aside from those pulling the strings. They most likely know everything about everyone. Maybe the hackers are just big on gossiping about their assigned hitman. “You’re getting the more complicated jobs,” he adds then while his fingers fly over the keyboard. _Clackclackclack._ Bad shit this sound reminds him off. The hastily finished homework late at night. The thousand letters he's written begging to be emancipated. Hours of pre-showdown research. “And this one is supernatural.”

The floorboards creak underneath his feet and Stiles stops, turns to the window then back to the bed. Supernatural cases are as rare as they are tough. He’s killed a few in the almost four years he’s been working for the company. The most challenging by far was a woman calling herself ‘The Desert Wolf’. She's the type of person who'd consider it to be hilarious since she has been a werecoyote. Stiles presses his thumb underneath the scar on his left thigh absentmindedly. That was the second and last time the thing in his head went on a rampage. For now, at least.

“Hey, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

A pause. “You want me to decline?” Another pause more loaded this time. Stiles’ decision is going to affect him as well. After all, he only gets paid after a finished job. “You can say no.”

Stiles doesn’t like the emphasis on ‘you'. The other contract killers are not happy about the obvious favouritism either. Although they don’t know each other’s identities, they have scheduled meetings each week. Probably for the higher-ups to have a general idea what their employees are up to. It’s also an easy way to have one eye on everyone’s morale. They keep reminding them that every decision they make comes with consequences. _Every action has a reaction_. It’s fucking kindergarten all over again.

“What’s the payment?” Albeit hating the favouritism, for some jobs he doesn’t even get out of bed. Let somebody else deal with the mess. If he hadn’t wanted to see New York City, he wouldn’t have taken yesterday’s errand.

“58,5 mil.”

Stiles blinks, takes the phone away from his ear to stare at it. The number needs a second to sink in. “What?”

“58,5 million dollars for you alone.”

Fucking hell. That’s more than double the money he currently has on his bank account. He scrunches up his face. “Why so much?” Someone is willing to pay 117 million dollars for one job? That’s insane.

“You know I can’t give you any other information unless you accept.” _Right_. It’s to protect them from each other. With enough details another contract killer might want to steal the glory – or even get rid of the competition once and for all. The higher-ups are meticulous about keeping them separated. Perhaps they’re worried about them offing each other. Then again, maybe they’re afraid of what they could do if they were to combine their abilities.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “They never allow me to decline with this much money involved.” Not in a million years. Their bosses would kill him before they let him drop it, especially if they already chose him for the job. Usually, an errand gets handed to whoever is available or already in the area. Being picked for a mission should be an honour. But the sum leaves a bad taste in his mouth and his contact's odd reaction doesn’t help either.

“I guess you’re right.”

“So?”

 _Clackclackclack_. “So,” he sounds hesitant, again, and Stiles wonders why that may be. Usually, his contact doesn’t make such a big deal out of patching errands through to him. “It’s a dozen targets, all faux supernatural.” _Oh, is that all_? “Whatever that’s supposed to mean. You are, or you aren’t supernatural, right?”

“That’s what’s worrying you?” Stiles asks staring at a dent in the wall. “Twelve supernatural creatures and you’re worried about the wording.”

“Faux supernatural,” he corrects, and Stiles bites back a swear. It’s no use to insult the guy now. “And you get around 5 million for each.”

Jesus fucking Christ. This job is going to take forever. He has to lay low. It seems best to buy an apartment. Every step needs to be planned meticulously. He should also update his weapon arsenal. The things he currently owns won't cut it. Not against the supernatural. Despite the trouble and danger the mission brings, Stiles feels strangely excited. Finally, a challenge after all this time.

“Well, then, Bernhard, anything I need to take into account?”

He doesn’t react to Bernhard either. It’s a long shot anyway but you never know. “Other supernatural creatures are not to be harmed. Unless the balance cannot be restored otherwise.”

 _Other supernatural creatures_. That sounds fantastic. Stiles sighs. “Where the hell am I going?”

“Beacon Hills.”


	2. correlation

Turns out Beacon County is a festering cesspool of supernatural creatures. It has three werewolf packs. _Three._ There used to be four until one pack apparently moved away from this freak show. A reasonable choice. Seriously. Three fucking werewolf packs. _Three_. Seems a bit excessive but why the heck not? The high sum offered for this job makes more and more sense. Who knew what else is creeping about in the woodworks? Most likely more than he’d ever be capable of imagining. With twelve faux supernatural targets running around town and the added ‘no supernatural creatures are to be harmed’ note, Stiles should prepare for the worst-case scenario.

With all the research he needs to do, relationships he better keeps an eye on and murders he has to plan which won’t scream ’contract killer on the loose’, he will spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in a town filled with horror stories. Fantastic. Getting a place here is the sensible thing to do. So of course, Stiles did what any sane person would do. He bought an overpriced apartment in the middle of Beacon Hills. It cost him almost half a million dollars. Furniture included. It’s not even funny anymore. Nobody needs this much luxurious bullshit. He doesn’t know what half the buttons of his new shower do – and who the fuck needs a Jacuzzi in their bathroom? The bathtub alone would have been enough. Hell, the shower would’ve been more than enough. The kitchen has even more unnecessary knick-knack. He’s pretty sure he won't use it, ever, because cooking isn’t exactly a skill he picked up as a child. He remembers he learned how to hold a gun, although he’s unable to picture the face of the person who taught him.

Stiles makes a mental note to throw out the leather couch and armchairs. He may torture and kill people for a living, but animal cruelty is where he draws the line. If he weren’t always moving, he’d have a home somewhere in a preserve with the six dogs whose owners he had killed. Alas, this day hadn’t come yet. He has to keep his inner Will Graham in check for a little while longer.

On his first day living in the new neighbourhood, he makes baskets of exquisite Polish cuisine. He puts on a slight accent, charms his neighbours. He ignores the uncomfortable leer from the guy living above him. There always has to be one weirdo in every apartment complex. Stiles is going to keep an eye on him and line his apartment with mountain ash. Just in case. The others are easy. Money calls to money after all. _Yes_ , _he’s living alone_. _No, he doesn’t go to college just yet, he’s an exchange student. Staying abroad looks good on the résumé._ The men try to talk to him about businesses Stiles has no clue about. He wings it, leaves a perfect impression. The wives are smitten. He’s charming, after all, the type of guy nobody would suspect. The guy you’d see in the background of the news channel while a shocked woman states ‘but he’s so nice, I can’t believe-'.

The only other teenager in the house tells him about a party, asks if he wants to come, meet new people. He blows her off and her younger sisters giggle behind her back. Her interest makes his skin crawl, sets his teeth on edge and he can’t help but look over his shoulder every now and again. Usually, Stiles prefers to keep to himself, stay in the shadows. It’s not always an option, though. In the end, it depends on the city he works in. New York and Miami are cities where nobody gives a shit. That’s the thing with metropolises. People stick out like a billboard when they go out of their way to be friendly with others. In a small town, you are the odd one out if you don’t try to befriend the neighbours – even if it includes a nosy teenager. Gift baskets with too expensive scotch and biscuits are the least he can do. He will greet them in the hallways and help them carry their groceries. He will attend their redundant barbecues and dinners and will buy too expensive wine despite his age. Because it’s the polite thing to do. Because he’s most likely richer than all the people living here. Because he can buy whatever the fuck he wants without worrying about it.

And that’s the thing with money, right? It loses its value when you have too much. He doesn’t care if something costs a hundred or a thousand dollars. The only reason he chooses motels over hotels is that nobody asks any questions. Otherwise he’d stay in deluxe hotels. So that the few hours he actually sleeps, he could do so on a comfortable mattress.

After he’s done with the neighbours, Stiles looks for his stash of mountain ash. He spreads it on the frame above the door as well as the windows, mindful of every nook and cranny. This is, after all, a festering cesspool of supernatural creatures. The last thing he needs is them getting into his apartment.

With a six-pack of energy drinks, Stiles begins his research. He checks the internet for everyone on the list his contact has sent him. Social Media makes the search as easy as the multiplication tables. Ninety percent of his targets have at least one profile. The younger, the easier. That’s how it goes. The age of Social Media is a jackpot. He can learn everything there is to learn about them. Their hobbies, which school they are attending, the people they hang out with as well as the places they frequent.

He starts visiting the café most of his targets visit two to four times a week. On day one, he charms the baristas. On day two, he’s on a first name basis with them all. On day three, they have memorised his order. On day four, he hears everything about Kira's corny boyfriend as well as Sydney’s crush on the town’s hottest deputy. It’s kind of charming. A life like his can become lonely, although it is his own decision. He has chosen to be a lone wolf because it’s less problematic, not because he’s awkward around people.

He still craves a message from Tara. She’s been silent for a while now. Perhaps it’s just the stress normal people go through when the Christmas Holidays are drawing nearer. But Stiles can’t shake the feeling she found more important people to talk to. He’s been putting off meeting in person for years. It seems only natural to move on eventually.

On day five, Instagram and Twitter have become a Christmas Winter Wonderland. Everyone posts piles of presents, Christmas trees or decorations. It causes Stiles to roll his eyes more than usual. Groaning, he drops his phone next to the laptop and grabs his coffee. Doing nothing isn’t exactly something he’s good at. But he also figured he can’t just jump straight into murder. Everyone’s going to suspect the new kid in town. Everything new and unfamiliar looks threatening under the right circumstances. That’s how it goes. That’s also why Stiles lets others come to him and suffers through the three girls chatting him up whenever business is slow. Right now, he spots two empty chairs as well as a line of people running out of space. While Lydia is charming the customers, who have nothing better to do than _tsk_ or check their phone, Kira and Sydney whip up some questionable coffee creations.

One of those has found its way to him unsolicited. Lydia insisted on delivering it herself. Apparently, popular guy Brett Talbot considers him handsome enough to make a move. Stiles didn’t dot down the phone number scribbled onto the bottom of the cup, but he’s not about let the drink go to waste although it took him a second to get used to the Christmas creation tasting like peppermint and toffee nut. Maybe he should let the girls work their magic next time. He’ll be spending quite some time in this place after all. If he continues to drink three black coffees a day, he’s going to be tired of it before Christmas Eve. 

Stiles is about to end today’s session early and consider a different approach when the doorbell announces a new visitor. He glances up from his laptop, raps his fingers against the paper cup in his hand. The winter holidays are testing his patience, yet he knows from experience that patience is what counts. He proves to be correct. As per usual. After almost five days of waiting around, Theo Raeken enters the stage. Popular kid. Captain of the football team. Faux supernatural. He holds himself in a way typical for boys in his position. Chin raised. Posture straight. Confident. Privileged with a toned body and broad shoulders. He wears a scowl as his gaze darts through the room searching for someone. His expression barely changes when he finds them. His shoulders move with a sigh, then he crosses the café without acknowledging anybody else.

Three girls put their heads together whispering about something when he passes them. They seem to be his age, maybe go to the same school. Theo either doesn’t recognise them or isn’t interested enough in their company to give them a second of attention. His goal is a young woman with straight, dark brown hair and a striking resemblance to him; same almond-shaped eyes, same nose, same clipped expression as Theo sits down at her table.

Stiles sinks deeper into his chair, grabs his coffee and waits for luck to work its magic for once. But neither Theo nor the young woman say anything for a good few minutes. They only stare at each other while the rest of the café is buzzing with laughter and conversation. It goes on for so long Stiles wonders if this meeting actually brings anything new to the table.

The young woman clicks her pristine fingernails against the table top. Her blue eyes never leave Theo, who checks his phone with a yawn.  

Lydia appears with a paper cup in her hand and sets it down in front of Theo. Black coffee sloshes, pools on the table. Nobody mentions it, but the young woman puts her napkin over the liquid. Lydia doesn’t apologise. Her charming character has shrivelled away, and she stares Theo down with a pinched expression. She opens her mouth, presses her lips together and shakes her head; almost as if she tries to convince herself to stay quiet. It’s only when Stiles follows her gaze that he notices Theo staring at him. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards when they make direct eye contact. He shifts, ever so slightly, and draws attention to how his black V-neck accentuates his arms and shoulders.

Stiles can’t wait to tell his contact how right he’s been with his assumptions about Theo. If this continues, this job is going to be a hell of a lot easier than he’d first anticipated. _Good_. He lets his gaze dart back to Lydia. She frowns at him, worrying her bottom lip before she opts for a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He can’t tell why she looks at him like that. What has her so concerned? But he doesn't get a chance to ask. Kira calls her name, and she hurries back to the counter.

“Theo,” the young woman sounds as if the conversation has been going on for a while, tiring her.

Theo nudges the coffee-soaked napkin with a finger, then proceeds to rub his thumb and pointer together scrunching up his face. “Tara.”

 _What_? Stiles’ gaze darts to Theo, the young woman, and back to his laptop. _No._ That’s not her. And even if it were, it wouldn’t change anything. The golden rule is not to get emotionally attached, neither to the targets nor their friends and family. It’s an odd rule. Stiles remembers a girl he had to kill. She was nice and cute and smart. He liked her, for what it’s worth, put pulverised peanuts on her sandwich and watched her suffocate. A job is a job. If you can’t separate work from private life, you’re not cut out for this business. Theo’s name turned up on his list which means he's living on borrowed time.

“It’s Christmas.” Tara doesn't say more than that as she folds her hands around her mug. This seems to be the culmination of a conversation which _has_ been going on for a while because Theo is quick to reply, “that doesn’t change a thing.”

They stare at each other again, and their tension and frustration caress his cheek. His stomach lurches. _Fuck_. This is horrible timing. He downs the lukewarm coffee creation instead and swallows around the taste it leaves in his mouth. _Not now. Tonight. I promise you._ The thick layer of hunger diminishes but stays on the backburner, reminding him of those words.

Tara purses her lips. “You haven’t visited them once since you're back.” Theo doesn’t say anything in return. Briefly, he glances at Stiles. Gaze heavy and intruding. He doesn’t look back, not this time, and when Tara continues to speak, Theo turns away again, “consider it. Mom and Dad want to see you.”

“So desperately, in fact, they didn’t come with you.” Theo grabs his coffee, eyes his sister over the paper cup.

Tara lowers her head. She’s begging now, trying to win over someone who doesn't give a shit about the Christmas spirit. “You can bring your girlfriend."

“What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend- partner.” It’s a lame attempt to figure out if he’s in a relationship, to demonstrate her interest. She’s getting desperate. Her knuckles turn white against the beige porcelain cup.

Theo snorts. “You could offer me to bring an army and I wouldn’t set foot into that house.” He raps his fingers against the wooden table, looks anywhere but her. His eyes linger on someone before they jump back to Stiles. This time they stay there.

Anger breathes down on his neck, and he swats at it like an aggravating fly. _I get it_. He hears the quiet chuckle in the back of his mind, hears it as if it’s coming from somewhere in the room. _Don’t be so greedy._ At times, Stiles goes longer without feeding. After a month, the thing in his head gets demanding, restless, threatens to take over. But no sooner than that. Not after a week. His eyes dart to Theo, and he takes in his sharp jawline, his posture as straight as a new pencil. _What about him? What makes his anger so special?_ There's no reply because he might as well talk to himself.

“Theo, it’s just one evening.” Tara has inched closer to the edge of the chair. “We thought-"

“I don’t understand why you bother.” Theo gets to his feet. His chair scrapes over the floor and bumps into the one behind him. The conversations quiet and heads turn, but Theo is as unmoved by that as he is by the pleading in her voice.  “I’d kill to be an only child.”

Tara sucks in a breath. “ _Theo_.”

But her brother doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t give her any more of his time, and she doesn't spend any of her tears on him either. Who would on a boy like him? Even Stiles considers his parting words way out of line – and that says something. It’s not like he’s a role model for ideal morals. Family is _complicated_ , to put it lightly. The previous behaviour indicates that Theo and his sister are by no means an exception.

Tara heaves a sigh, flicks a strand of hair out of her face. She watches her brother until he’s out of sight, then shakes her head and pulls out her phone. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, lips curled into a tight line. When she drops it after a few moments, Stiles phone vibrates twice.

>> _Sorry I didn’t reply sooner. Family drama._

So, that young woman next to him _is_ the Tara he’s been talking to all these years. Tara Raeken. Sister of the guy he has to kill. Stiles runs a hand over his face. So much for fate spitting him in the face. Again.

>> _I’m with my family Christmas Eve. Wish my brother would come. Any idea how to change a teenager's mind?_

Stiles closes his laptop. _Hm_. Chances are, he can use this information to his advantage. He’ll come up with a plan later. First, he has to satisfy the beast.

 

“We have collateral damage.”

“How many?”

“The dad and her sister.” Stiles leans down and scrutinises the car’s interior. A thick branch has crashed through the windshield and missed the two remaining occupants. The girl in the back breathes still but there’s a deep cut on her forehead. In comparison to the father, she’s hit the jackpot. From where Stiles stands, it’s hard to see his head. His chest moves up and down, however, and the space where his legs should be was replaced by metal. The driver’s side is completely caved in after taking the full blow of the tree.

Stiles straightens and turns his back on the car. Alive or dead, they hardly matter. He has a faux supernatural to kill. Whatever happens to her family isn’t any of his concern.

Further down the road, Alyssa drags herself away from the car leaving behind a trail of blood and- “what the hell?”

“What’s going on?”

Stiles walks to the middle of the lane. Glass crunches underneath his boots as he crouches down. Sinking into the fissures of the asphalt isn’t only blood. Something thick and bright silver seeps into the ground as well. He’s seen a lot during his job, especially taking the supernatural into account. But this is new even for his standards. Every single target he’s killed, human or not, has bled red and only red.

“She bleeds some kind of liquid silver.” He straightens again, brushes dust from his black pants that isn’t there and turns to look for his target. She’s almost vanished from the area illuminated by the headlights of her father’s car. It's time to finish this. “You might wanna put the radio away for this part.” His tolerance for everything is high. He doesn’t mind the noises of bones breaking or the begging, the sound of a last breath.

He needs it. All of it – and that’s the problem. He doesn’t want his contact to notice how much he enjoys this.

“It’s fine.”

Stiles swallows. “I mean it, Hannibal.”

A dry chuckle echoes in his ear. “You already tried Hannibal.” Oh, someone’s keeping track. How sweet. “And besides, this way I can send an ambulance if something goes wrong.”

Stiles halts in his steps. _What_? “Surprised to hear you care.”

“Of course, I do.” _Because of the money._ Why else would he? It’s not like they’ve had contact which didn’t involve their job. Some people’s lifestyle might have to adjust if they lose this kind of income.

“Whatever.” His attention flicks back to the girl and he crosses the distance, a distance she has hardly changed despite her attempt of crawling away. “Alyssa.” His voice dances through the air. She yelps and turns onto her back. Up close, he sees the damage as clear as day. A bone sticks out of her left arm. The skin of her face is red and dirty and partially scraped off. Glass sticks out of her left cheek. Her once grey pullover doesn't look any better. Red, dirt, glass and that silver liquid have had their way with the wool. Stiles barely recognises the torn green pattern as the Christmas tree it was supposed to be. People wearing tacky Christmas clothes deserve a torturous death. As if all the decoration and music isn’t enough already.

She raises her right hand. Sharp blades protrude from her nails which make her look like a B-movie Wolverine. It’s hard to have respect for a cheap knock-off; in any regard. She doesn’t even seem to heal. At least the road rash should be gone by now. Broken bones take a while, depending on the power of the creature. Maybe she doesn’t know how to heal. Maybe she can’t heal in the first place. It’s most likely the kind of information he’s on the phone with his contact in the first place.

Stiles cocks his head. “She’s not healing.” It’s silent for a moment, then he hears the tell-tale _clackclackclack_ as fingers fly over a keyboard.

“What do you want?” Alyssa’s voice is shrill and obtrusive, uncomfortable almost.

There are so many cliché responses he could give her, but he unclips his stun baton and switches it on. The fizzle of electricity makes his skin tingle. He licks his lips as Alyssa starts to whimper and beg. Why won’t people suffer in silence? Her voice is already getting on his nerves. But that’s not the only thing grinding his gears. Warm anticipation spreads through his body that certainly isn’t his own. _Oh, fuck you_. A soft chuckle. An invisible finger brushing his jawline. _How many times do I have to tell you to stop that?_ As if it’s not enough to feel its hunger. What did he do to deserve this greedy motherfucker in his head?

“There's a car heading your way.”

 _“_ What _?”_ Stiles blinks, then stares at Alyssa who is still laying there, panting harshly, her face a grotesque mask of pain.

“A car.” His voice is fast, words tumbling over each other, “a police cruiser. Mischief, you have to _leave_.” He doesn’t ask how or why he knows that, doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He has to finish the job.

 _You'll get more soon._ Stiles reaches back, fingers tightening around the handle, and he brings the stun baton down. It connects with her temple. Her plea breaks off mid-word and she collapses onto the street. _Behave and you’ll have more than a few treats._ He drops to his knees, ignores his contact demanding that he’ll leave right now. But he’s never stepped back from a job, and he won’t start now. He just has to be fast.

 _Now, take as much as you can._ Despite wearing gloves, as soon as he grabs her face, a shiver runs down his spine. He bites back a moan, remembering his contact can hear every single word he says. The feeling is intense, similar to biting into a fresh, still warm chocolate lava cake. Which is a comparison he probably shouldn’t think about moments before he'll break a girl’s neck. But, oh well, _semantics_.

Stiles moves his hands away from her cheeks. He places his right underneath her chin, the other at the back of her head. There used to be a time where he needed to give himself a countdown until he had the courage to go through with the kill. He’s long past that. She’s dead the second he has a proper grip on her. Her neck snaps easily, and when he pulls his hands away, she drops onto the asphalt like a used child’s toy. From this point on, it’s methodical. Get out the phone. Take the picture. Send it through the encrypted channel. Leave. Routine. Muscle memory.  

He perks up as he hears sirens in the distance. They’re fast. But how do the police know already? Stiles glances over his shoulder at the car wreck. He’d heard if someone woke up, if someone had made a call. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe they’re on their way to another operation and just happen to go this way. _Maybe, maybe, maybe_. Who fucking cares? He will be gone before they reach this scene.

“ _Leave_!”

“Oh my god, yes, _Dad_.” Not only does he not particularly enjoy being yelled at, if there’s anything that sets his teeth on edge it’s being told what to do. His contact isn’t wrong, of course. In this case, at least. So, Stiles dips his gloved finger into the silvery liquid, then hops over the dead body and hurries off the street, back into the adjacent forest. He can’t help the grin creeping onto his lips. _Good start, don’t you think_? He hears a harrumph and rolls his eyes. _Stop being so needy._

The sirens fade in the distance when he finally decides to slow to a walk. He barely sees from one tree to the next, can’t make out what’s in front of his feet, yet he never runs into anything. This forest feels like he knows it, like it knows him. It feels like home, strangely enough.

“Hey, Mischief?”

He pulls his glove off, turns it inside out to keep the liquid stored away safely. “Yeah?”

“I’m Jordan.”

He smiles, briefly, weirdly giddy about having won their little game and pushes the mask out of his face to breathe in the clear night air. “I’m Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone joining the ride! 
> 
> I'd greatly appreciate your feedback. <3


	3. family ties

The café is crowded. Voices soft despite the constant chatter. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans reminds him of something or someone he couldn’t put a finger on. His shoulders relaxed whenever he notices it, a weight lifts from his chest and all he wants to do is breathe in the homey scent. Sometimes, he expects someone to wrap a blanket tightly around him and push a mug of hot cocoa into his waiting hands. His foster parents gave him a bible or holy water, so he’s not quite sure where this is coming from.

Lydia awaits him with prominent dark circles underneath her eyes. Her voice is quiet, hoarse almost and there is a gentle crack in the _lo_ of her hello. She rubs a hand over her cheek, returns a bit of redness to her skin with it. She doesn’t wear any makeup, no mascara or lip-gloss either. Even her hair is only in a loose bun instead of an intricate braid. When she takes his order, there isn’t a quip about the change from a simple black coffee to a mocha. Stiles doesn’t push it, fishes for his money instead and notices a patch around her index finger. Furrowing his brows, he scrutinises her face again but she’s not looking at him while preparing his drink – and here he thought Theo’s presence is the only thing capable of dragging her mood through the mud.

His usual spot in the corner is occupied, so Stiles chooses a table at the window, close to the door. Maybe a bit of the Californian December sun isn’t the worst thing. It’s also the perfect spot to keep an eye on the table closest to the counter. Oblivious about their fate, two of his targets are on a double date with their significant others. Hayden Romero, who scowls at her boyfriend as he laughs about whatever, and Corey Bryant, who’s gaze darts through the café whenever he isn’t looking lovingly at his boyfriend. They are two of Theo’s entourage. He's not about to fuck with them just yet; especially not Hayden. The last thing he needs is a grieving deputy breathing down his neck.

Stiles sips on his mocha and pulls out his phone. Time to work his magic on Tara. Funny, how the one he's been texting with since he’s twelve is going to be the person helping him finish one of his biggest coups. As of yet. Who knows what the future holds.

_Show him you care or bribe him with something. Either works, I guess. <<_

_Don’t pressure him tho <<_

Stiles purses his lips as his gaze wanders back to the group of four. It’s not just Hayden's sister that’s going to pose a problem. Liam and Mason are members of a werewolf pack. The smallest and youngest one, granted, but a pack none the less. He doesn’t have the time to take out a pack. It’s only going to alert the other two. He’s good but not good enough to get rid of _that_ many werewolves. There’s also the fucking catch in the contract. Not being allowed to kill the supernatural will become a real pain in his ass at one point or another.

His phone vibrates, and he takes a large gulp of his mocha. He hasn’t eaten yet. An empty stomach doesn’t help to ignore the hunger for something else. The chipper atmosphere in the café doesn’t make it any better either. Couldn’t there at least be one person suffering from Christmas’ stress, a break-up, _anything_ really? He should probably wrap his head around a proper diet if he wants to get through this without a hitch.

>> _What could I bribe him with?_

This is like talking to his foster mother all over again. ‘What do you want for your birthday, darling?’ She never looked at him, too busy knitting a dress or braiding her lovely daughters’ hair or bossing around the staff. It wasn’t a Cinderella situation; he’s not been locked up or starved or denounced to a slave. He has been treated okay – until he wasn’t anymore. But at certain times Stiles was surprised she knew his name. Telling her that resulted in a slap heard across the nation. Stiles runs his thumb along his cheek. He’s carried the bruise for over a week, wiping off the makeup his oldest sister put on him after leaving the house for school.

Stiles’ grip tightens around the paper cup.

A social worker lived down the street. He visited the school Stiles’ attended on a daily basis. Not once did he ask if Stiles was okay despite priding himself to be the best at his work. Funnily enough, he only helped young, troubled girls – until he fell down the stairs drunk as all get out with a lit cigarette. Some people deserve to burn more than others. Sometimes, Stiles still smells the odour of sulphur and charcoal as the man’s body was slowly consumed by flames.

A sudden bark of laughter yanks him out of his thoughts. His gaze darts to Hayden and her friends. Corey covers his face, shoulders shaking while she is looking as if her coffee has been made with stale milk.

 _He's a teenage boy. Shouldn’t be too hard_ <<

A new message pops up before Stiles has the chance to put his phone down. Someone’s really desperate for help.

>> _So, I’ll either become the best sister in the world in the next 24 hours or I’ll gift my little brother a prostitute?_

Stiles snorts out a laugh and downs the rest of his coffee.

_I didn’t say anything about a prostitute. <<_

_> > It was heavily implied._

The doorbell clangs its welcome, and Stiles props one foot against the edge of the table, biting the inside of his bottom lip absentmindedly. Speaking of prostitutes, he has to lure Theo in with something other than sex. After all, he has to stay interesting enough to keep Theo engaged until he’s the last faux supernatural standing. Usually, he’d show up at a football game or somewhere else to fake interest. Usually, he uses his body and mouth and puppy eyes to get what he wants. Giving Theo too much, however, is going to be completely contra-productive. He’s bad at long-lasting relationships, which, honestly, most likely goes hand in hand with a pain-craving monster in his head.

And that’s not even all of the shit he has to figure out. He needs to know if this silver liquid is part of every faux supernatural or if it has been exclusive to Alyssa. A biological bauplan would be extremely helpful. It would also be an advantage if he knew _what_ they are. Faux supernatural is not a helpful definition. Some born werewolves look down on those who are bitten, yet Stiles has never heard them refer to them as being faux. So, maybe they have been created differently. With today’s science, a lot seems possible. But that doesn't tell him anything. Are their bodies more supernatural or human? Do they have the same weaknesses and strength as normal supernatural creatures? If so, he should get his hands on mountain ash and wolfsbane bullets. It’ll make his job easier once the supernatural world is alerted. Even though the thing in his head won’t like it. There will be a time in which Stiles has to act fast rather than cruel.

 _Restore the balance_. Science creating some sort of super-mutants is the only thing that makes sense in this regard. Stiles has met a few emissaries, and these people are all about balance. It’s likely that one of them or even one of the packs living here has hired him to get rid of the problem. Although he can most definitely scratch the McCall pack. A bunch of teenagers isn’t likely to have 117 million dollars just to hire a contract killer. He usually doesn't care who his client is but this case is special. It’s intriguing, somehow, since Stiles has no idea what a group of faux supernatural could really do to disturb whatever balance all these emissaries are preaching about. It’s not as if alpha werewolves ask before they turn somebody and if they do, it’s a rarity. Isn’t that a disruption of balance, power-hungry creatures getting even more power? But maybe exactly that is the problem. Some snotty alpha who is pissed that they aren’t needed any longer.

“You look like you need a drink.”

Stiles startles and forces his gaze away from the window. Sinking into the armchair opposite him is Theo Raeken. The centre of attention at his school. Captain of the football team. Attractive enough to have everyone wrapped around his little finger with a single pointed smirk. His giant ego is most likely exactly what he needs to dig his fingers into. Give him a finger instead of his whole hand, a smile instead of a laugh, always just enough to keep him interested, to keep him on his toes.

Stiles nods at the second cup. “Is that a thing you do around here?”

Theo cocks his head to the left, grins, shows a hint of straight, white teeth. His eyes sparkle with mischief “What?” He quirks his brows as he pushes the steaming cup towards him, almost like a peace offering – or prepayment for the time he’s going to steal. Depends on how you look at it. Stiles knows the gesture, notices the glint in his bright blue eyes. It’s almost funny how such a kind deed seems like the setting of a trap if coming from the wrong person. Perhaps it’s not even Theo’s intention but his face makes it hard to think otherwise.

“Buying strangers coffee.”

It’s hard to tell if the disappointment dancing over his features is real or not. “So, I wasn’t creative and unique?”

“Not at all.” Stiles drums his fingers on his thighs.

He laughs softly but Stiles recognises the tone underneath. Theo knows exactly what he’s doing and it’s going to be hard to wrench the control of the conversation away from him. “Who stole my idea?” Such a honeyed voice. The guy really thinks he’s the shit.

Stiles doesn’t take the cup and grabs his phone with a small smile. “Brett Talbot.” He can play the role of the cautious, innocent teenage boy quite well if he needs to. But he doubts that’s what’s going to keep Theo entertained for long.

Theo sips his coffee, eyes on him without a care in the world. A smirk curls around his lips as he recaptures Stiles' gaze. “Makes sense. Guys like him get hot under the collar because of those doe eyes.” A backhanded compliment. Nice trick. It keeps people guessing, even Stiles. But not in the way Theo intended. Instead, he’s more interested why he’s here and what he knows. Somehow, he can’t shake the feeling that Theo’s here for more than coffee; and as he leans forward, one arm over his thighs and continues to study his face like he's searching for something specific the feeling intensifies.

“Guys like him?” Stiles tilts his head.

“Predators.” He might as well have spelled out 'werewolf'. It’s hard to tell if he sensed something off about Stiles or if he gives his words too much credit because he's aware of the supernatural world. It's even harder to find an answer hidden behind the smirk. It makes him the picture-perfect example for the definition of a _fuckboy._  His muscled arms and rose jumper don't really help. 

Quirking a brow, Stiles asks, “and what are _you_?”

Theo chuckles and looks down, trails the lid of his cup with a finger. “What brings you to Beacon Hills?” A change of topic. _Figure it out._ He can’t be more predictable if he tried. Theo has to step up his game or he’ll never get anywhere. Stiles knows the tricks. He knows what these guys want. No is a challenge for them. A game. The hunt is almost more thrilling than the reward. He gets it. He really does. Stiles has been craving a challenge himself after all.

“Peace and quiet,” he answers after a moment of silence, smiles only enough to keep the game going.

Theo’s laugh bounces off the walls. He throws his head back, exposes his throat. Stiles wonders how long it takes for a faux supernatural to bleed out, wonders if they heal from a cut throat. Alyssa didn't heal. _Do you, Theodore?_ His eyes snap back up and he finds Theo's with ease, holds his gaze with a brow raised in question. “This town is anything but quiet,” he informs him with a lazy smile, fingers brushing through his hair. “But I can show you how to enjoy that.” The only thing missing is a wink. Stiles would’ve abandoned all hope if he’d fucking winked at him.

His aggressive approach is admirable, for sure, his self-confidence impressive. Theo is the kind of guy who takes up too much space, who can make anyone around him feel small and insignificant. His presence is booming, radiant, a head-turner. He’s the student talking back in class, the boyfriend parents warn their children about, the bad influence teenagers want to have a taste of.

In another life, Stiles can imagine himself falling for that shit. It is strangely tempting, even now, even though he has used all those tricks on others to reach his goal. But he’s also been on the other side many times. He’s danced this dance, knows how to move close enough to keep them interested without giving away too much. Theo wants to hunt, Stiles will let him think he's the hunter for a while because, in the end, it won't matter. Theo Raeken dies at the end of this story. Even if he does end up enjoying his company. He has to face the music eventually, so, Stiles decided to be honest with himself from the very beginning. Not getting his hopes up won't hurt him. There's a reason he never agreed to meet Tara. With fate constantly laughing in his face, he'll never be able to form any sort of meaningful relationship. Then again, what he doesn’t know, he doesn’t crave. So, it’s not as if he’s constantly depressed knowing he'll be alone for the rest of his life; well, as alone as one can be with a funny little thing living inside his head.

“Am I boring you?”

Stiles blinks. Not being completely distracted is probably tremendously helpful while establishing relationships. Real _and_ fake. “No, I haven’t slept much,” he says and lets his eyes wander back to the faux supernatural. “I’m still unpacking.”

After a moment of silence, Theo leans back into the armchair. “If you need any help-"

Stiles smirks, shakes his head. “You always that keen to go to a stranger's belongings?”  

Theo laughs softly. “Right, I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” His voice is silky smooth, almost perfectly covering the _‘I’m not used to telling people my name’_ ringing underneath his words. Every small town needs its popular jock. Beacon Hills has grown two in the same generation. Lovely. Supernatural creatures aren’t the only thing this town has an abundance of, it seems.

“I’m Theo.” He doesn’t lean over, doesn't offer his hand. _Oh, I know. I know._ But Stiles stays quiet, opts for another smile instead. It’s quite hard to tell for how long he can keep Theo at arm’s length. Stiles doesn’t doubt his giant ego. Not even a little bit. There’s still a fine line he should stick to. He simply needs to figure out how far he can venture away from it. For now, Theo seems to be amused by his resistance since he chuckles again as he sinks deeper into the chair and spreads his legs.

The guy has no fucking reason to be this confident. Looks aren’t everything. Rich of him to judge; he’s the one constantly using his body to get a job done – and a good feed. Still, there’s some pride left in him as well as the certainty that it’s better not to make it too easy on Theo. So, he smiles when he looks him straight in the eye, “I don’t find you that interesting.”

He enjoys it, this little dance of theirs; there is no denying that. And something about him keeps the interest of the thing in his head. It's strange, how unnervingly attuned to Theo's varying mood changes it is. It takes from everyone, doesn’t care if young or old, guilty or innocent. It craves and takes and wants. But for some reason, it homes in on Theo as it has never done on anybody before. Out of a room full of people, it has never highlighted someone’s anger as it did yesterday. _What’s so special about you, Raeken?_

Theo tips his head to the side, eyes him silently for a while before looking in another direction. Stiles follows his gaze and finds Tara stepping out of a door marked as personal only, quietly conversing with Kira. The young kitsune nods before joining Lydia back behind the counter. Tara stands alone now, her eyes roaming the café before fixing on her brother. They certainly share an appearance, yet they don’t really look alike. Her smile is soft where Theo’s is sharp, her features so very gentle.

Theo glances at his sister who waits in a respectable distance, giving her brother privacy he doesn’t necessarily need. She smiles but not at him. After assessing her for a few seconds, Theo turns his attention back to Stiles and raises to his feet. His gaze darts over his face until it lingers on his cheek, then jumps back up to his eyes. He smirks, “you will.”

 

There is a certain kind of beauty in setting the world on fire. It’s chaos in its purest form. Devouring everyone in its path. Scorching the innocent and guilty. Black and white, good and evil, they don’t exist. There’s no god between those raging flames. Only death.

His foster mother told him he'd burn in Hell, so Stiles decided the world should share his future. She said these words to him when he was ten years old and nothing had happened yet, although, growing up, he has always been aware that he’s different from the other children in his orphanage It’s not something he states to sound edgy. It’s a simple fact.

People thought something was wrong with him. With nine, you should have outgrown the imaginary friend phase. He didn't, or at least, he thought it was imaginary. Children laughed at him. Adults tried to get to the bottom of it. Clearly, there had to be something wrong in his head, a trauma, something connected to his missing memories. They were so sure something had to be there, some damage, something they can fix – and when they couldn’t, they were so sure about the real reason: demons. They kept quiet about that particular fact, of course, otherwise, nobody would’ve taken him in. A nine-year-old with a possible trauma was hard enough to place.

At first, it’s wasn’t bad. He went to a Catholic school, read his bible, prayed his prayers and kept quiet about the thing in his head. Life gets easier if you don’t mention the parasite sharing your body; at least until said parasite stops being satisfied by normal human food and starts craving something more unique. And it was rather persistent, so Stiles found himself more often than not in the middle of brawls or arguments. He’s been grounded more than half his time at his foster home, had his things taken away, had to go to bed without dinner, has been in detention constantly and ultimately was kicked out of school after not even a year. For weeks, he’s heard his foster mother say ‘we should've taken in the girl. We never have any problems with the girls'. His foster father defended him. Until he didn’t anymore, and Stiles went to bed thinking that maybe if he were a girl, things would become easier.

He was wrong. One morning, he woke up in the wrong body. One morning, he woke up as a _girl_ – or so he thought until he stood in front of the mirror in his room. A reflection doesn’t lie. A reflection always shows you the truth. That day, Stiles learned he could let the world see whatever he wanted it to see; it looks real, feels real, smells real. A perfect illusion.

But that’s when shit really hit the fan. His foster mother was losing it, screamed _demon_ through the mansion, gathered the other three girls and left. She never came back because her husband refused to give Stiles away. He loved him and thus, wanted to help him. A first of many mistakes. Three years of absolute torture followed; three years during which Stiles wished his foster father had simply given up on him, three years during which Hellfire didn’t seem that terrifying. Instead, he went through four official exorcisms, through being drenched in holy water, locked up in his room, paraded in front of priest after priest after priest hoping someone would figure out what possessed him.

Nobody ever did. Not even the people who took him in after his foster father’s sudden passing. They taught him to embrace it, taught him how to bring the world to its knees.

Stiles closes his eyes, listens intently to the crackle of the devouring flames. His skin still tingled from the sensation; physical torment is a dessert, but emotional pain is a locked cupboard filled with sweets – and he’s ready to do anything to open it.  

“Bet that says something about you.”

Stiles pulls his gaze away from the crackling fire and fixes Theo with his eyes. He’s standing on the roof, face partially hidden in the shadows, the other side ablaze with flames. Something else embodying chaos in its purest form. “Seems to run in the family.” He doesn’t smile when Theo grins at him, “I told you not to use your powers for shit like this.”

Theo laughs, an uncanny imitation that brings Stiles back to the café for a few moments, to the comfortable chair and bright eyes roaming over his face as well as body, palpable, soft like the steps of a spider but just as uncomfortable. He seems more real than he should be. But something still doesn’t feel _quite_ right. His jaw is straight and his grin sharp. His eyes sparkle with fire and mirth. His shoulders make Stiles feel weirdly scrawny. He’s even wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and yet – something seems off. Perhaps because he’s aware all of this happens in his head. Just another illusion, this time directed at himself.

With his hands in his pockets, Theo leans forward, “it’s the only way I can talk to you when you’re awake.”

Stiles tsks. “As if you do much talking.”

“You do enough for the both of us.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, Stiles with his eyes narrowed, Theo’s sparkling with mischief. When he moves, it’s slow strides and carelessness. As long as it gets his fair share of pain, the world can burn around it. Stiles sometimes wonders if it would let him burn too. Theo sits down on the top of the roof, uncaring about the spot of burning bright light he chose. Nobody could see him anyway. He doesn’t _exist._ “Why are we still here?” Theo cocks his head, watches Stiles closely for a few seconds before turning away, eyes locked on the hellfire on the other side of the street.

Neither of them mentions that it could swallow more than one house.

Stiles runs his fingers along the chimney, drags his eyes back to the collapsing house and down to the people darting back and forth in front of it. Waiting. Restless. Panicked. One of them grabs his attention in particular. Her hair matches the colour of the flames. She was early. Very early. She almost had enough time to rush in and help. Now, she stands there, helpless, her friend holding onto her.

“Coincidence?” He asks sliding into a crouch in the shadows of the chimney.

Theo leans back onto his hands. “Like the early alerted police three days ago?” He smirks when they lock eyes again. “You're smarter than that, ototo.” _Little brother_. It hasn’t called him that in years. But they didn’t have a real conversation in a long time either – and it usually never chooses to appear in the form of someone they have to kill. He has long gotten used to random people popping up in motel rooms; a cashier, a barkeeper, the old lady cursing the youth. It’s always a nobody. Never someone important.

Stiles curls his fingers into the black fabric of his jeans. “What are we gonna do about her?”

Distant sirens are almost louder than the roaring of the fire.

A gentle finger pushes the mask upwards. Lydia smiles at him as she gets to her feet, hair brilliant in the light of the fire. All but wings are missing to create a heavenly creature. Instead, red bubbles from her throat, painting death on her white dress and pale skin. She’s still smiling when she falls, her hair whipping around her face until she vanishes into a gust of wind.

Stiles turns away from the flames, sinks further into shadows as he makes his way home. _Home_. He shakes his head. Not home. Just another place to pass the time until he’s done with this town. There will always be a next one. Always a new place. He doesn’t belong anywhere and somewhere along the line he’s gotten used to that thought.


	4. truths

“No.”

Stiles leans back in his chair and fixes the ceiling with his stare, notices the immaculate condition now that the light is still on; no spots of dubious origins, no beaklike holes or fissures looking like spider webs. The apartment is in mint condition – something he could get used to. Something he shouldn’t get used to. His life won’t be like this.

“I don’t need your permission for anything.” If his tone is sharper than intended, that is not entirely his fault.

Jordan lets out a long breath. “The contract says-"

“It says,” Stiles interrupts clenching his teeth, “I’m not to do to anything _unless_ it stops me from regaining the balance.” Anger sparks in his gut. He doesn’t like to be doubted or questioned. He knows what he’s doing. He's the best at this job after all. Otherwise, _he_ wouldn’t be here. “Pretty sure a banshee could cause a lot of problems.” Their powers are impossible to judge, seemingly endless. Their voices are weapons Stiles has no defence against. Luckily, they break like humans.

But so does he.

“How do you plan on killing her?” Jordan asks in a soft voice.

Stiles breathes, concentrates on the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Very carefully.” They both know about the damage a banshee's own death scream can do. The Desert Wolf has killed one and Stiles saw the pictures of destruction, a vast landscape of ruins and the ground coloured in rust. It was an old banshee, in control of her power and from a bloodline dating back centuries.

Who really knows what Lydia can do?

“But-"

“Jordan, I said-"

“No, hear me out, _please_.”

 _Darling, hear me out, please. I can save him._ Stiles shakes his head as the memory creeps up on him. She left that day. He watched her walk out of the door with his three foster sisters huddled together with their luggage. All but one are warily eying the staircase like they expected Stiles was about to bring Hell itself down on them. He wonders if one of them realised that their departure turned his foster father into a fanatic desperate to get his wife back while not giving up on curing a son of God. If he were alive, would he still be as dedicated? Because somewhere along the line his desire to help became desperation to prove a point; and nobody did anything. They turned a blind eye – the same people who would now be shocked that Stiles turned himself into a weapon rather than a victim.

The first person he killed for his job was a woman physically abusing her husband. When she hit their son, he had enough. But he was too afraid to become his small town’s laughing stock and too afraid to do something himself. Stiles allowed the man to use him like a gun, and he would do it over and over again. Maybe that makes him a monster for some but in the eyes of that man, he was a hero. After four years of being painted the villain, that was all that mattered to him.

Jordan’s voice is a distant murmur slowly dragging him out of his thoughts, “she’s terrible at being a banshee, isn’t she?” That’s up to debate. She never appeared to prevent the death. She came to find the body. But as soon as she learns how to interpret the signs, she will become a problem. “You know how they get when you violate the contract.” _Oh_ , so that’s the point? The repercussions of his actions? After being as long in the business as Stiles is, breach of contract doesn’t seem so scary anymore. He gets less money or none at all depending on the severity, perhaps he doesn't get a job until they think he's learned his lesson. It's not as embarrassing as having another group of people clean up after a messily finished job.

Stiles clenches his fingers around the armrest. “I’ll pay you the money you might lose.” The bitterness tastes like smoke in his mouth.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“ _Oh really_?”

The doorbell prevents Jordan from answering. “I call you back.” Stiles hangs up and opens the door expecting the creepy guy from upstairs or the girl from across the hallway. “Uh- hi?”

Tara Raeken is standing in front of him wringing her hands together and pointedly avoids meeting his eye. That’s the last person he expected to find on his doormat. How did she find him anyway? “I know this is weird.” Weird? Disputable. Convenient? Absolutely. “But I have a request.”

“Uh, sure.” Stiles steps aside, gestures in the direction of the couch and follows her.

Her eyes roam through the apartment; perhaps she tries to figure out who she’s dealing with. Or she’s just curious. When she sits, she pulls her bag onto her lap, raps a nail against the designer logo. “I saw you with my brother.” Okay, straight to the point then. Stiles respects that. “Theo,” she adds then blinks, flushes. “I’m Tara. Raeken. Tara Raeken.”

Stiles drops into the armchair, pulls one knee to his chest. “And he wants you to...?” Theo doesn’t strike him as the type who sends others to do his work; especially not his sister. But technically, he doesn’t know that, so he has to play the part.

She looks at him, looks away and breathes in. “He seems interested in you.” Her cheeks redden more, and she starts picking at the handheld of her bag. “And I- there’s this charity event my parents hold every year on Christmas Eve.” _Tonight_. He’s heard some people talking about it at the café yesterday. Seems to be something big. “Theo hasn’t- he’s lived with-“ Tara takes a deep breath, meets his eyes for about a second before she stares at her hands again. Does she even know where her brother has been or is she too embarrassed about where Theo's has lived? “He’s recently come back to Beacon Hills, and that comes with responsibilities he refuses to accept.” Her voice strengthens. She raises her chin a bit and when she meets his eyes, she finally looks like her brother's sister. “This charity event is important to my parents.” Clearly. Shouldn’t it be important for those the money is collected for? Stiles’ shoulders sink. His perfect picture of Tara falters even further when she continues speaking, “how do you think it looks when their son doesn’t support them? We need to be a unit. I need him to come tonight.” _What will the people think otherwise?_ “And I thought of an incentive.”

Frowning, Stiles props his chin on his knee, bounces his other leg. _Wow_. That’s harsh. Coming from him, it’s probably a bit hypocritical, but what does reputation matter when it’s about those who need help? He's donated half the money he earned anonymously to various orphanages across the US. Does he do it to ease his guilty conscience? Perhaps. Does he do this to help children like him? Absolutely. Does it make him a good person? No. But he isn’t a bad person either.

This is dirty. Tara plays her brother like a fiddle to keep her family’s precious reputation intact. “I’m the incentive.” Stiles isn’t here to teach a stranger about the value of family. He's here to do a job.

“I pay you whatever.” She doesn’t even bat an eye. Money talks, doesn’t it? At least that’s what she seems to expect as she pulls a cheque book and a pen out of her designer handbag. His eyes travel down from the Gucci sunglasses pushing back her hair, to the gold necklace dangling in front of her – no doubt expensive – blouse.

“I’m not a prostitute.” He’s a contract killer, and it’s his choice if he uses his body to reach a goal – he’s not going to let someone else whore him out to save their own reputation.

Tara's face falls. The grip around her cheque book tightens. Her gaze darts around the room. She almost acts as if she’s never met someone who can’t be bought. Maybe she hasn't. _Tragic._ “You make it sound worse than it actually is.” Wow, he can’t believe he put her on some kind of pedestal. How _naive_ has he been? Anger and frustration equally sink their teeth into his skin. She seemed so genuine over text, even when she talked about her little brother.

Stiles raises to his feet. “Go.”

“Don’t be complicated.”

“I said _go_.” Or he’s going to do something he might regret.

Tara clicks her tongue before quickly scribbling something on her cheque. With a sugar-sweet smile, she places it on his coffee table. “Just think about it. Nobody has to know.” _Because you’re trying to use a minor as an escort, bitch._ Tara stands up, adds in a honeyed voice, “it can be out little secret.”

Stiles curls his hands into tight fists, nails digging into his palms. His heart thunders against his ribs. It takes him more strength than he’d like to admit to keep his wits about himself after the door fell shut behind her. He wants to break something, _someone_ but he knows it’s far too dangerous to go on a job like this.

“Anger makes you stupid,” Theo announces and crouches next to the coffee table to inspect the cheque. “And stupid gets you killed.” His blue eyes flick up to meet his.

Stiles curls his lips. “Oh, spare me your wisdom, parasite.”

“ _Wow_.” Theo stands suddenly in front of him, eyes narrowed dangerously, “that wasn’t very nice, ototo.”

There used to be a time when Stiles was afraid of upsetting the thing in his head. They are long past that now. “What do you wanna do? Make me hallucinate?” Stiles leans down, right into Theo’s face. “Give me nightmares?” It bares its teeth, the illusion blurry shifting back and forth like it’s losing its frequency. “I’m not afraid of you!” Stiles tells the empty room. _Not anymore._

 

The house represents what people probably called _old money_. High walls, large rooms, hallways with paintings from ancestors with a stick up their asses. It smells of antiques and cleaning agents. Most rooms he passes seem untouched, with furniture as old as the whole mansion. The foyer is plastered with family photos, no story, no smiles. The women sitting on armchairs, silk dresses and hair falling in loose curls over their shoulders. The men are standing, chin raises, suits tailored. Theo moves from his mother’s lap, to next to his sister’s chair, to behind her. Then he’s gone. Erased.

This mansion reminds him so much of his foster home that he expected bibles and crosses everywhere. Their garden is smaller, though, and crowded with people. The mayor and his staff. The sheriff plus a few of his deputies. The head of the hospital as well as some of the surgeons. No nurses. They don’t earn enough money. BHHS’ principal Natalie Martin and her daughter Lydia. Satomi Ito, Brett Talbot and his sister Lori; Satomi has money, Brett is famous. The _right_ kind of people have been invited. Rich people. People with influence. Those who are important to the town.

That’s why Stiles hasn’t been welcomed personally yet. They saw him wearing a button-down and suit pants only, then decided he wasn’t worth talking to. A woman has greeted him, distant but exceptionally polite, and led him to his seat. He shared a table with other rich people who arrived alone; most of them were men. Peter Hale, the creepy guy from upstairs, sits opposite him and Stiles hates every second of it. Something about this guy sets his teeth on edge and he can’t tell if it’s the constant smirk or his unwavering stare.

Stiles presses his thumb against the crook of his neck, attempting to ease the ache there. It appeared shortly before dinner, after everyone arrived. He isn’t quite sure where the pain stems from. It’s almost as if he’s moved wrong and screwed over his muscles. Maybe it’s just his body’s reaction to Peter Hale. He has never felt this uncomfortable around a person.

Theo's sudden appearance behind him is a relief. “Let's go.”

Stiles turns to look at him and pulls his hand away from his neck. “What?”

“Theodore.” Tara brushes a stray strand of hair over her naked shoulder. The conversations around them slowly fade away. Her smile is polite, friendly, but her eyes speak a completely different language. “Mom is about to hold her speech-"

“That’s why I left,” Theo hisses and tugs at his slim tie. “I’m not going to sit next to her while she's a toxic bitch.” Their table falls silent all of the sudden, and the man next to Hale turns around to scrutinise him.

“ _Theo_.”

But he ignores her. “Let's go.”

Stiles shakes his head. Theo's anger is booming, subtle like the bass at the beginning of a song. This is too good to pass up. _Free food_. Its greed wallops underneath his skin and he scoots to the right, makes as much room as possible on his chair. When he pats the free space next to him, Theo doesn't hesitate. He sits down, their thighs pressed together. It’s not exactly comfortable but it works.

This is about to get much more interesting than he thought.

Tara narrows her eyes once as she fixes her gaze on Stiles. But it seems as if she rather has her brother sitting somewhere else than being completely gone. With one indignant huff, she spins around, dress flying around her legs and she hurries back across the garden.

For a while, Theo works his jaw quietly. It takes a few seconds until someone pulls his neighbour back into a discussion about football.

Stiles massages his aching neck. “Why did you think I’d leave with you?”

Theo scoffs. “You think I don’t know she talked you into it?”

“You don’t know your sister as well as you think.” Stiles smiles as Theo shoots him a glare, then shifts until he reaches his wallet. He doesn’t take kindly to people ruining what should be the most important thing in the world. _Family_. There is nothing Stiles wouldn't do for a real one. He’d suffer every punishment for all the things he had done just to have a single person of flesh and blood he could call family – and Tara spits on that; she and her parents. He kills people for a living, so he surely isn’t above ruining a reputation; he'd do that even if he didn’t plan on getting close to Theo. That bitch doesn't deserve any better.

Stiles flicks his wallet open and pulls out the cheque. “You just got a whole lot more interesting, Theodore.”

Theo snatches it out of his hand. “She _paid_ you?” Again, the conversations around them quiet down but he doesn’t even think about lowering his voice. “And you took it?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the accusation. “Your sister took one look at me and thought she can buy me like a whore.” He curls his fingers around the glass, swallows his own irritation down with more than half of its content. “You really think I let her get away with that?” The man next to him starts to whisper something to one of the two women at their table. _Yes, spread the information_. “And I didn’t take the money. She left it at my apartment. I brought it here to donate it, not before putting a dent in her sparkling reputation, though.” _Not without causing a bit of strife._ “But I don’t have social media. _You_ on the other hand…” Stiles trails off, quirks a brow.

Someone chuckles, and Theo’s gaze darts away from the cheque. His lips twist into a smirk and his blue eyes light up as he snaps a picture of the cheque with his phone.

“What are you doing?” He squints at him.

With a smirk, Theo offers him the paper. “Social Media is an efficient killer.”

Stiles takes both, the cheque and the phone, with an exasperated sigh, “you're such a goddamn amateur.” The amusement gives way to personal offense. Someone really does have a fragile ego despite his grand demeanour. “This-" he taps the display with his nail before rummaging through the app- “can far too easily be dismissed as fake. Especially after your comment at the coffee shop.” _I'd kill to be an only child._ If he’s ready to say that in public, he'd be likely considered to be someone who manipulates a picture to make his sister look bad. That much is obvious.

Theo chuckles. “You remember me.”

 _This guy. You like this guy_? Something like a chuckle ricochets in his skull and Stiles rolls his eyes. _Wow_. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He shoves the phone back into Theo’s waiting hand, a recording app open, and gets to his feet.

“Aren’t you quite the trouble maker.” It’s the first time Peter Hale has chosen to talk to him.

Stiles would have appreciated it if he hadn't. “I just believe in helping karma out.” He turns to Theo, trying to shake the odd vibe he gets from his upstairs neighbour. Something is _so_ wrong with the guy. Maybe he should check if he is a werewolf, in case his gut feeling is correct. It usually is but he’s proven to be wrong; like he’s been with his old contact. Stiles pushes the thought to the back of his mind. “Come on.”

Theo doesn’t need to be asked twice. They cross the garden side by side. Stiles pushes his wallet back in the pocket of his jeans. Out of spite, he won’t donate any money via the Raeken family. Instead, he'll deliver it anonymously after the news announced how much they’ve raised; just to donate more. Maybe even to a different institution. He didn’t have enough time to check if the hospital really needs the money.

“Theo, not now.” Mrs. Raeken ignores Stiles completely when she shoots her son a glare. “Sit down and stop fussing around.” Charming woman. His father doesn’t even look up from his phone. Stiles doesn’t have to imagine the negative amount of love the siblings received when they were little. No wonder Theo doesn’t want anything to do with them.

Stiles drops the check on the table in front of Tara. “You forgot that at my place,” he says pushing his hands in the pockets of his pants.

Theo crosses his arms in front of his chest. “That’s low.”

Tara’s eyes dart to her mother who fishes for the cheque. Seems like she hasn’t heard about her daughter’s business. “It was meant as an incentive.”

“An incentive?” Stiles quirks his brows. “500k are a bit more than an incentive, don’t you think?”

“Tara,” Mr. Raeken mutters, sounding as if he has barely listened to the conversation around him, “we talked about the presence of callboys during official events.” Mrs. Raeken covers her mouth on shock and breathes her daughter’s name as if she brought ruin upon her family. Well, she kind of did.

Theo rolls his eyes.

Stiles watches Tara stand up. “I told you I’m not a prostitute.” Nobody apologises. How polite.

“You’re making things up,” she snaps, slamming her hands on the table. The cutlery rattles and the conversation at the table with the police force suddenly dies. Their attention is heavy on them. Always watching, even when they’re not on duty; or maybe Raekens are notorious for trouble. A lot of people with too much money tend to have a giant ego and the idea that they own the world.

Theo chuckles.

“Do I?” Stiles asks placing both his hands on the table as well. Mr. Raeken looks up from his phone to scrutinise him. “First, I blow things out of proportion and now I make things up, what is it, Tara?” He straightens again, cracks his neck to relieve tension as he pulls out his phone. Under different circumstances, he would have already initiated a fight, kicked something, _broke_ something. Anything to get rid of this pulsating rage clawing at his skin.

Stiles opens his chat with Tara. His voice shakes slightly when he begins to read. “What could I bribe him with?” His grip around his phone tightens. He could break that, crush it between his fingers. The strength for that, he had. “He’s a teenage boy. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Oh my god,” Tara breathes. “ _Stiles._ ”

This wasn’t how he wanted to meet her. This wasn’t how he wanted to see her. But everyone suffers through karma. Everyone has their own consequences to face. “So, I’ll either become the best sister in the world in the next 24 hours or I’ll gift my little brother a prostitute?” He swallows around the lump on his throat, steps away as Tara grabs for him, his phone, whatever. “I didn’t say anything about a prostitute.” His gaze snaps up and he locks eyes with her, watches as she covers her mouth. “It was heavily implied.” He pauses, gives her a chance, a moment. Maybe she’ll explain.

But she doesn’t. She just stares at him.

“And the next day you stood in front of my door. You could’ve invited me, but you left a cheque on my table and told me to think about it.” Stiles pushes his phone back in the pocket of his pants. His fingers shake. He still wants to break something badly. “Money doesn’t get you out of this one, Tara.”

As if on cue, Theo pulls his phone out and shows her the recording. “You’ve outdone yourself, sis.”

Stiles is ready turning, walking away, not hearing anything over the blood rushing in his ears. He needs to leave. He needs to get rid of this buzzing, of this burning sensation in his stomach. And the pain. He knows better than to let people in. He knows better than to think he’s somehow allowed to have a relationship that actually might last. A family, even if it’s just one person.

“Hey, _hey._ ” Theo catches up to him before he reaches the gate. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” Stiles could invite him over. Kill him. “I came for the public humiliation.” He doesn’t. He’s not that stupid. The guy is essential to his plan.

Smirking, Theo raises his phone. “It’s public, all right. You wanna go drink to that?” Of course, the popular jock knows places and people. They could get drunk – if alcohol affected Theo in the first place – they could hook up and Stiles could dig his claws deeper into him, pull him in and keep him close.

He shakes his head, winces when the movement reminds him of the pain in his neck and shoulder. His anger swallowed it whole. Stiles presses his fingertips against the muscles hoping he’d get rid of the ache somehow. _Anger makes you stupid, and stupid gets you killed._ He can’t deal with Theo. Not right now.

Theo steps closer, invades his personal space. “I’ll massage you as a thank you.”  

Stiles clenches his hands for a second, then uncurls his fingers and rubs the side of his neck. His lips part but his words don’t come immediately. Instead, his mind is too occupied with what might happen if he agrees. The soft light from the lanterns next to the path illuminate Theo’s skin, lets it appear soft and slightly golden. His eyes seem grey, but his teeth are perfectly white when his lips pull away for a grin. The palm of his hand is surprisingly soft as it covers Stiles’ hand. He can feel his heartbeat quickening. _Shit_. Stiles blinks once, twice and finally brings himself to shake his head.

“I’m not that easy.”

Theo tilts his chin down, frowns slightly. It hardly takes long until the grin returns. “You can’t be bought, you resist a massage…” Shaking his head, Theo places his hand on Stiles’ chin, presses his thumb gently against his bottom lip, drags it down. “Let me at least drive you home.”

Stiles is about to vibrate out of his skin. _No. Nononono._ He swallows heavily and steps away. Distance. He needs more distance. “I’ll see you around.” The absence of Theo’s hand is noticeable. His skin too cool suddenly, and Stiles quickly turns around before biting his bottom lip. It’s not like he’s seen him for the first time. During his research, he’s already noticed how attractive the guy is.

“Hey, Stiles!”

He turns around again but doesn’t stop walking. “What?”

Theo doesn’t reply immediately, and as the moment drags on, it almost seems like he called him only to see if he’d react. “I owe you one.”

“I hold you to that.”

 

The water leaves red marks on his skin. It burns more than his anger, which still coils and uncoils in the pit of his gut. He ran home, hoped exhaustion might kill this feeling. He almost broke his phone three times but never went through with it. Although he’s irrational, he’s too methodical to make these imbecile mistakes. Buying a new phone costs time and leaves a trail – online as well as in a shop. He just needs to breathe through it. This feeling will pass. It always does.

Stiles curls the fingers of his left hand around the side of his neck, massages his muscles with his digits. Sighing he leans against the cool tiles. He can’t shake it. The frustration, the anger, the irritation. It’s his own goddamn fault. Of course, he’d be peeved about someone trying to buy him with the clear intent of using him for their brother’s pleasure – sexual or not doesn’t matter at this point. He shouldn’t have been so naïve, so gullible. He should’ve never gone against his own instincts. Instead, he built this perfect persona for Tara, only to learn the bitter truth the second he met her for the first time.

“Stop thinking about her.” Stiles flinches, and it laughs. “I couldn't resist your emotional turmoil.” It flashes him Theo’s signature smirk and slips into the shower. Naked. Fuck. _Fuck_. This really isn’t helping his situation at all. It really sucks having to share a body with something that can read his mind considering it frequently uses his exact thoughts and feelings against him. “Let me help you relax.” Within the blink of an eye, Theo’s in front of him, both hands cupping his neck. It chuckles, _Theo_ chuckles and his hold on reality is slipping when breath whisks over his cheek seconds before a mouth covers his own.

_I know your tricks._

“And I know what you like.” Teeth sink into the crook of his neck.

Stiles lips part for a surprised moan, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He will regret this tomorrow like he’s regretted it every single time it happened. But his body is already responding. He tilts his head for easier access. _Fuck it_. Tonight, he couldn’t be arsed to force himself out of this hallucination.


	5. karma

Stiles isn’t that surprised about the single text message waiting for him in the next morning. In fact, he is surprised it hadn’t arrived sooner. Like yesterday or on Christmas morning. Then again, underestimating someone is a mistake. He’s judged Theo correct up until now; the guy knows exactly how to hook someone. And isn’t there something like a three-day rule? In any case, they needed a new form of interaction since the café is not exactly a place for them to meet any longer.

>> _She still isn’t talking to me. I owe you double._

Not even a name. Theo really is something else. Shaking his head, Stiles walks back into his bedroom. Although he planned to let the guy hunt, it felt strangely nice to be this obviously wanted, courted almost. Usually, he charms the pants off whoever he wants to. Theo is taking quite the amount of work from him. And it feels nice to be on the other side for once.

Well, kind of.

 _I’ll hold you to that._ <<

Christmas Eve was two days ago. He’s been silent ever since, didn’t leave the apartment and instead watched the absolute dumpster fire unfold that has been going on on social media ever since. Lydia publicly quit her job. Sydney and how older baristas followed suit. Kira doesn't seem to be as outspoken as her friends, but Stiles doubts she keeps working there. A lot of people declared they won’t visit Tara’s café again. The outrage seems excessive, then again, he’s not used to a town this size. In New York, something like this would go on for a few hours, a day maybe, then it would be forgotten; or something else would’ve popped up in the spotlight. It’s different here. This might as well destroy her livelihood.

>> _Can’t repay you if I don’t see you._

Stiles sips on his coffee and puts the mug on the dresser next to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. It’s odd, somehow, that he actually wants to see Theo again. They haven’t talked that much and it’s not as if anything the guy does isn’t as calculated as Stiles’ every move. But he stood up to his sister. He stood up to his parents because he didn’t want to stand by her mother being _a toxic bitch_. The speech, right. He wonders what that would’ve been about. Maybe he should ask the next time they meet up.

 _Too busy hiding from her wrath._ <<

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek and massages his neck. Tara’s has been ringing him up non-stop during the holidays. Today his phone is thankfully silent. He wouldn’t put it past her to come and talk to him in person, though. Part of him misses her and their conversations, but the much bigger part doesn't want to read a single word from her ever again.

>> _She blames me. I’ve made the conversation public after all._

_> > She’ll never see she’s as shallow as our parents. _

Stiles cracks his neck, then turns a little to see better. The pain in his neck and shoulders has gone down by a bit but the lines on his skin returned. He doesn’t know what they are or where they came from. Ever since he can remember, he's had them. What a shitty night that was. He was nine when a guy in military uniform found him in a ditch at the side of the street in the middle of the night, body aching, throat dry, waking up in the arms of a stranger. The paramedics arriving at the scene assumed that it’s a Lichtenberg figure caused by a lightning strike. He didn’t have an entry or exit wound. His clothes were fine. _He_ was fine. The only things they could attribute to their theory were the lines curling from his neck over his shoulder down over his back and ribs as well as the memory loss. A Lichtenberg figure is supposed to go away after a couple days, though. His never did. The lines fade until they are hardly visible, yet, occasionally they come back.

 _Do you have anything to do with this_?

“No,” Theo says from somewhere behind him. His reflection doesn’t pop up in the mirror; the only weakness of these illusions. Not even a werewolf notices anything odd about them, and then a reflective surface comes along and _poof_ , nothing. “We can’t all be perfect.” Theo appears in his peripheral vision, so Stiles turns to look at him properly. “What are you gonna do about that?”

Stiles runs his hand along the side of his neck. “Makeup, I guess. It’s too warm for scarves.” Missing the cold is something Stiles has never expected to admit. He hates the cold, he really does, but having to wear something with a high neck would be of advantage in his current position. Instead, he has to leave the house and buy makeup. He just has to wear a hood or something, that should work. People are simply going to assume he’s embarrassed about buying it. “Or you could use your power for something useful for a change and cover me.”

Theo shrugs. “I guess you should get going then.”

 _Typical._ It’s only ever doing something when it gets to eat or can piss him off. With a huff, he busies himself with a reply.  

 _Siblings suck. Good thing I’m a one-man-family_ <<

Stiles tosses his phone on the dresser and sips on his coffee again, eyeing the illusion critically over the rim of his mug. “By the way, what is this?” He gestures in its general direction as it quirks a brow at him in mild surprise. “Are you gonna keep doing that, or what? You haven’t spoken to me in months before.” Thirteen months to be exact, neither in his dreams nor as an illusion. He’s heard nothing but the occasional demonic, bodyless chuckle. It’s not bad per se, just a little disconcerting; the laughter not the silence.

Theo drops onto the bed. “You want me to be her?” Tara appears, cold smile fixed at him. “Or her?” Lydia smiles softly and brushes her hair aside to reveal a cut throat. “Or _him_?” Stiles tightens his grip on his mug and goes rigid. The man looking at him from the bed is nobody he wants to see ever again. He's dead and he deserved his fate. One day, he'll get to his foster mother as well. She's going to be the last person he will ever kill. That’s something he swore himself since heading down this path.

Stiles puts the mug away and yanks a red hoodie out of a drawer. “Fuck you,” he mutters against the thick fabric.

Theo sighs. “This is better.”

“It also costs more power.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re such a Negative Nancy, ototo.” Being called little brother feels exceptionally wrong considering what happened Christmas Eve. Of course, it’s not the first time it has done that. When he was fourteen, it took the form of a girl from school he found cute. It happened again when he was almost sixteen and developed an awkward crush on his first contact even before they’ve broken the rules and met. Three times in total, the thing in his head took it upon itself to make Stiles feel good. Which isn’t much considering it’s in his head for almost nine years. It’s still three times too often to call him brother, isn’t it?

“I can call you babe if that makes you feel better. Or lover.”

Stiles grimaces. “Shut up.”

Theo laughs but before he can reply anything, the doorbell announces somebody’s arrival. Fantastic. As if he's having the time or patience for visitors. This better isn’t Tara. He grabs his coffee and checks the new text message on his way to the door.

>> _I envy you_

_> > What are your plans for the rest of the holidays?_

Killing people. The usual. Also, none of his business. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek and runs a hand over his face. Despite himself, he can’t stop staring at those three words. _I envy you_. It’s a bit weird to see someone being bitter about having a family, someone resenting their own so much they don’t want to have one. Well, then again, after meeting the Raekens maybe that isn’t so surprising.

He pushes the phone in the pocket of his hoodie and opens the door, ready to tell Tara to piss off – because nobody else would come to his apartment – and blinks twice before his brain processes who is standing in front of him. _What the fuck?_ “Sheriff,” he greets squinting slightly. “Deputy?” Although he can't deny that all he wants to do is slam the door in their faces, relief washes over him. He doesn’t feel like dealing with Tara.

“Strzezymir."

Stiles goes rigid. _Oh fuck_. He chose the name for a reason, too hard to write and even harder to remember. Sheriff Stilinski, however, doesn't even flinch when he says it and smiles stepping into his apartment, hand outstretched. “I hope we're not interrupting anything.” He nods at the coffee mug.

“No.” He grabs his hand, shakes it with a small smile, “I was just- no. No, all’s well. Come in.” _Get your shit together._ He steps aside. Even if they are here because of the recent deaths, which seems unlikely, they won’t find any proof at his place. Separating his work from his private life is something he’s lived by since he started this job. It’s not only dangerous but also really fucking stupid. Everyone can visit him at any time. The point is to be normal.

“Thank you.” The sheriff steps over the threshold. “Deputy Parrish and I would like to ask you a few questions about Christmas Eve.” _Oh_. Well, that makes sense, although Deputy Parrish looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. He acts almost skittish as Stiles scrutinises him to figure out if he’s seen him during the fundraiser. Probably not, tho. Stiles prides himself with having a great memory; if it works, at least. Parrish is handsome, too. Not the obvious model appearance Lydia and Theo strut around with. At least if he wouldn’t look as if he’s about to jump off a cliff. So, he’s not someone easy to forget.

“Can I offer you coffee?” Stiles points in the direction of his kitchen without looking away from Parrish. “I just made some.” While the Sheriff is already crossing the living room, his deputy still stands rooted to the spot in front of his door. Stiles squints, “is he supposed to stay outside?”

The sheriff sighs. “Parrish.” His tone unfreezes the deputy. Still apprehensive, he starts walking. His eyes dart from Stiles to the sheriff and flick up to the doorframe. He swallows visibly. Takes one step, then stops just before his shoe touches the threshold. “Parrish!” Sheriff Stilinski repeats impatiently, and the deputy squeezes his eyes shut as if he braced himself for impact – the second Stiles understood what’s going on is the same Parrish bumps into the mountain ash barrier.

It flashes a bright blue, then vanishes within the blink of an eye.

Nobody says anything and Stiles chances a glance over his shoulder. Stilinski has his back turned, taking in his surroundings. Quirking a brow, he turns back around and catches Parrish’s eye. He's shaking his head in quick succession, then mouths ' _please'_. Huh. The sheriff doesn’t know. In a town with so much supernatural population, it’s surprising and really fucking stupid. Stiles expected the police is in on the whole thing. But it’s not; having a deputy in his debt wouldn't be detrimental. Stiles swipes a bit of mountain ash away, then shifts to let him pass narrowing his eyes. _How do you know about that barrier, Deputy Parrish?_

“So,” he says closing the door, “coffee?”

“This won’t take long.” Stilinski sits down on the couch, Parrish follows his example and Stiles flops into the armchair. “First things first, Theo mentioned you're a minor. Is that correct?”

 _How does Theo know that?_ “Yessir.” All these people have information about him or his apartment, Stiles has never offered to anyone. _What the hell is going on_?

The sheriff furrows brows. “But the registrations office told us you're living alone.”

He's contemplated if he should bother with a new ID or take one, he’s used a couple years ago. Considering all the extra work, he decided against it. He’s also favoured this option because he’s been registered in two other cities before, so he wouldn’t have to create a completely new history as well. Seems like he’s had better ideas. Because now the questions will come. “I’m emancipated since I was 14, Sir.” He gets to his feet, clenching his jaw. Lying to werewolves means scraping by the truth as close as possible, and that means bringing up his foster family.

Stiles yanks a drawer open, shuffles through some papers. Even though it sounds hardly believable, Stiles has pleaded for emancipation after the unexpected passing of his foster father since the court wanted to place him with his foster mother again. Luckily, he’s been living in South California at the time and already has had a contract with his current company. They offered housings, a place at their private school and a job under the working conditions for minors. Officially, of course. At high school, he was taught more than basic classes and the job's daily working hours depend on how efficient Stiles is. The company still lies to the court and will continue to do so until Stiles turns eighteen in April next year – unless he fucks up.

“When did you come to the US?”

The drawer closes with a thud, and Stiles’ shoulders are rigid when he turns to offer his papers. “When I was nine.”

Stilinski doesn’t look at the papers, doesn’t even take them and Stiles drops it onto the coffee table. “Where are your parents, son?” His eyes are as soft as his voice. Why? _Why_? What does it matter? He’s here because of Tara? His private life doesn’t fucking _matter._ As the head of the local police department, he should keep his curiosity under lock and key. Not that his deputy shows any more professionalism considering he still looks pale and avoids his eye whenever possible.

Stiles pulls his hoodie up enough to show them the cross-shaped scar on his abdomen. It’s like a stigmatisation, a warning sign. _Don’t open. Demon inside_. He hates it and contemplates tattoos to cover all his scars, but it’s easier to use makeup to hide them – well, at least if he doesn’t forget buying it. Tattoos are like fingerprints; he can’t leave those behind. “I don’t really wanna talk about it,” he mutters ignoring two pairs of eyes growing wide. Showing his scars makes people soft because they have pity. He’s done it twice before. Neither of those two has lived to tell the tale. Otherwise, he certainly wouldn’t risk it.

Stilinski clears his throat and pushes the document away from him. “Tara called you Stiles.” What does that have to do with anything? Where do all his questions come from? He feels like a suspect more than anything, and it makes him rather fidgety. “What’s up with that name?”

 _Well, the thing in my head calls me that._ Stiles tugs on his sweatpants. “My first name isn’t really rolling off the tongue, so, it’s just a combination of my first and last name. Strzezymir Milewski.” He shrugs, reciting the excuse from the top of his head. A repetition, like the favourite quote from a book. “I went for Miles first, but I didn’t like it, hence Stiles was born.” It’s a risky lie because it’s quite far away from the truth, however, he chose both names deliberately to fabricate this story; the deputy stays quiet, so it seems to be working. That is if he’s a werewolf. If he’s not, Stiles has to hope it works out in case he ever meets one.

Stiles slumps back into the armchair and pulls a leg to his chest. Stilinski looks at him, _really_ looks at him. His gaze is palpable, sharp like he wants to cut away layer after layer to find the answer to a question that hasn’t been asked yet. Stiles can feel his skin start to crawl and focuses on his coffee mug, pretending not to notice. But he does and he hates it.

He fidgets with his hoodie for a second, tugging it up slightly to cover the lines, when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Although it’s hard to be inconspicuous about it while the sheriff watches him, Stiles inclines his head just enough to watch himself aiming a gun at the Stilinski’s head.

_No._

His doppelganger tilts the gun, then lowers it. “Why not?”

_Because we don’t kill random people. Are you nuts?_

It juts its chin in the air and pushes its power lip forward. “You’re getting soft,” it notes making his statement sound like an insult. As if he has time for that.

A crackle drags Stiles' attention back to the sheriff, and he glances at him sipping on his coffee. Getting distracted right now isn’t the smartest idea anyway. “It is Donovan, Sir. He’s causing a ruckus. I wouldn’t call-“

Stilinski sends an apologetic smile in Stiles' direction. No worries there, old man. They couldn’t leave fast enough. “Jordan can finish up here.

Stiles blinks. _Jordan_. Deputy Jordan Parrish. A supernatural creature – possibly werewolf by the amount of packs in this godforsaken town – called Jordan. Fucking _really_? Stiles widens his eyes. This can’t be- has he really been that gullible? His insisting that Stiles is allowed to decline the case, his trying to convince him not to kill Lydia, his knowledge about the line of mountain ash. _‘The guy living above me gives me the creeps.’ ‘How so?’ ‘I don’t know, man. I lined my apartment with mountain ash, though, so I can figure out if it’s normal or supernatural creepy, you know?’_ This fucking piece of- Stiles’ gaze snaps to the pale deputy on the couch. No wonders he is a heartbeat away from a nervous breakdown; he’s probably been counting the seconds until everything clicked into place since Stiles opened the door.

The sheriff raises to his feet. Stiles blinks as he pops up in his line of sight. Right, he totally forgot the guy’s here as well. “I’m sorry, I have to cut this short.” He pats himself down, a small frown creasing between his brows, then fishes for something in his pockets. “Ah.” His kind eyes crinkle at their corners when he smiles again. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ring me up.” A card. The guy gives him his phone number. Okay- _what the hell_? “Any time.” Stilinski almost pokes his eye out with his laminated calling card. Why does he even have that? Is that normal around here? Because Stiles is sure it shouldn’t be. Even as a sheriff, giving your private number to random strangers – no matter how innocent they appear to be – is a pretty fucking bad idea.

“Is that standard procedure?” He stands up, tries to smile but it feels wrong, so he doesn’t have much hope to be convincing. His hands are shaking, and he crumples up the card, pushes it in the pocket of his hoodie.

If the sheriff notices anything, he doesn’t show it. Gently, he places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder – a touch he almost flinches away from. He manages to steal himself in the last second, otherwise, _that_ would’ve opened a whole other can of worms. “It’s a proposal for help coming from a concerned father.” Father? Stiles has briefly skimmed information about the town’s sheriff, but he doesn’t remember anything about a son. Or a family. As far as he knows, Stilinski is living alone.

This town will drive him insane.

“I’ve been on my own since I’m fourteen,” he repeats fidgeting with the corner of the business card. Help from the police isn’t exactly in his top five list of things he needs, not right now and not in the foreseeable as well as unforeseeable future.

The sheriff still smiles, squeezes his shoulder yet he doesn’t fucking move. Stiles’ blood pressure is about to go through the roof. His heart thunders against his ribs and his control crack and splinters. He feels as if his anger is seconds away from bursting out of his chest – which is not going to be pretty. _Oh boy_ , does he have a terrible handle on his temper. “Be careful, son.” The words barely reach him over the blood rushing in his ears. It’s impossible to tell if they’re a warning or a goodbye. All Stiles registers is the hand leaving his shoulder followed by the door falling shut.

Then silence. Stark and absolute.

Stiles breathes in, focuses on his chest rising and falling slowly. In. Out. In. Out. He is calm. There’s no reason to act irrationally. This isn’t the same. Jordan isn’t Tara. He’s never meant as much to him as she did… except that he does. Tara was his normalcy; this tiny niche of his life where he could pretend to be Chad-Every-Teen. Every detail of his private life, she knows about. Whenever he’s had a problem regarding his day to day life, Stiles went to her. He can’t do that any longer.

Jordan was the opposite. No matter how high Stiles flew after a successful job, Jordan’s dry comments and aggravatingly strict rule book demeanour brought him back down to earth. He’s his stability. His anchor. At least, he’s supposed to be all that. But now, he’s not. Not anymore and never again. Two of the most important people in his life are gone in the span of three days.

 _Great_.

Stiles reaches up, fingers trembling with the effort to stay calm and refills the gap in the mountain ash line.

Jordan sounds wary, “Stiles.” That’s it. That’s the voice he’s come to trust. It’s a voice he’s heard every day for two years straight. He can’t have nice things, can he? Instead, he’s destined to ruin everything he touches. He’s poison to everyone and himself. He’s a murder weapon and has no one to blame for that but himself. That’s okay. It’s karma. He expected to suffer ramifications for his actions. Part of his job is dealing with that. Another part of it is dealing with loss; that of other people’s and his very own. Things like that happen all the time. Unfortunate but ultimately inevitable.

His last contact saw his face and sold him to the authorities in ‘ _good faith. Stiles, you need help. They’re not going to punish you. They want to help you. Stiles, please listen to me.’_

He wonders if they have found every piece of her by now.

The thing is, he’s known for many things; he’s not known as someone who makes the same mistake twice. He breathes in, then out and closes his eyes. “I’m going to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early, whoop! It's also a bit shorter, so, there's that. 
> 
> As per usual, feedback is greatly appreciated! <3 Love you guys!


	6. kings

A gun clicks.

Stiles shakes out his hands, cracks his neck. “You wanna use that in here?”

“Only if I have to.”

He’s been shot before. Comes with the territory. Knowing how it feels makes it a lot less scary. He remembers the blazing hot pain cutting through his leg, followed by the agony of being hit with a baseball bat. _That_ was the worst part. That was what hurt the most – and it’s not as if Jordan is about to kill him. Pain he can stomach, although he’d rather not risk getting shot. Makes the job harder.

Stiles throws his phone onto the armchair. Jordan points the gun at his shoulder, not his chest. No. He’s not going to kill him.

“We’re faster than him.” Lips trace the shell of his ear. Stiles curls his hands into fists, nails leave white marks in his skin. “We can take him.” Its voice is a growl, aggressive, an animal cornered.

Jordan’s hands are steady, his index finger hovers over the trigger. Hesitation creeps up on Stiles. They are both criminals. They both did something to give the company leverage over them. _What did you do, Deputy_? Jordan rubs his right thumb against the side of the gun. _Did you kill someone too_? His jaw is set but his eyes – his fucking eyes.  

“He pities you.”

“Stiles, let’s talk about this.”

It chuckles, curls a hand around the nape of his neck. An all too quiet hum fills the air. “He thinks he can fix you,” it whispers, nose pressed against his cheek, breath ghosting over his skin. “He thinks you’re just another tragedy.”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Jordan straightens, eyes growing wide. For a second, his attention wavers as confusion takes hold. It’s exactly what he needs. Nothing more than a second. A heartbeat to move. To act. To disable his gun. His hand falls to his side, and he hooks his thumbs into the pocket of his sweatpants. He can't move. Rooted to the spot, Stiles can’t do anything but stare at Jordan. In the end, he’s nothing more than a walking cliché, isn’t he? A little boy wishing for a family, for someone to hold, for someone to be there for him; and everyone betrays him. Over and over and over, the cycle repeats. Until one day Stiles finally learns that there is nobody in this world who actually gives a shit. Not his real parents – why else would he be at the side of the road in the middle of the fucking night? He was a monster to his foster family, a project for his first contact. Tara took one look at him and considered him a prostitute.

Stiles really thought Jordan would turn out different. Wrong. Again. Maybe it’s easier if he let the thing in his head take the wheel for however long it wants to.

“I’ll do it.” Words painted against his skin, soft, caring. “You won’t even remember.” Fingers brush over his back, curl into his hoodie. “I promise I’ll be quick.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Stiles scoffs. “You think I can’t handle a banshee?”

Jordan lowers his gun inch by inch. His grip remains tight around it, though, and his shoulders are a tense line. He doesn’t let his guard fully down; something Stiles shouldn’t do either. “I’m not worried about Lydia.” The gun points at the ground. If he moved now, it would be laughably easy to disarm him. But he doesn’t. He can't. “It’s me I’m worried about.”

“You?” Stiles can’t tell if he wants to laugh or tell him to fuck off. “Why would I be afraid of _you_?” He asks at the same time as the grip around his neck tightens and it hisses, “don’t listen to him, ototo.” There’s a quiver in its voice. Its fingers tug on his hoodie, then press against his lower back. The hold on him never wavers, stays strong, relentless, possessive.

Jordan runs a hand through his hair. “I’m a hellhound.”

Stiles goes rigid. The thing in his head sucks in a breath. _Hellhound_? After reading so much about them, Stiles never expected to find one. They’re one of the rarest species in the world – and one of the most dangerous. He never exactly looked forward to meeting one. But here he is. Well, he hasn’t technically met one yet, only the person who is possessed by it. Just like the thing in his head, a hellhound is a separate entity inhabiting the body of a human. As the protector of the supernatural, it senses another creatures’ death like a banshee. They are both harbingers of death, they are both connected. Here's the kicker, if Stiles attacks Lydia, the hellhound will come for him – and that’s a sure-fire way to get himself killed.

“No.” The voice changes from urgency to absolute ecstasy. Its fingers disappear as does the illusion, momentarily at least. With bright eyes and a too wide smile, it pops up next to Jordan. “It’s not going to hurt us.” Stiles watches himself brush his fingers along Jordan’s cheekbone who has no idea what’s happening to him. “We only need its name.”

 _What_?

It hisses, bares its teeth. “Demand its name.” What’s so important about a name? What does it matter? Jordan is possessed by a hellhound just as Stiles shares his body with something. _You haven’t told me yours yet._ “I don’t have one, I told you. Now, get the hellhound’s name.” A pause follows every word, reminds him of its terrible temper. Something they have in common. Maybe that’s why it chose him.

Stiles licks his lips. “Jordan.” When he takes a step towards him, Parrish raises the gun again. “I want its name.” He stops, raises both hands in mock defence. His anger still lingers but the curiosity is stronger. Aside from Theo, the thing in his head has never been interested in anything else before. This is an exception, a rarity; it’s too intriguing to pass up.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar,” it snaps curling its hands into fists.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.” Its irritation prickles his skin like a thousand needles. “Tell me its name, Jordan.”

“No, talk to _it_.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Stiles-“

“I said give me your name!” His words claw their way out of his throat, leave his mouth raw and tainted. He can feel his blood burning with something he hasn’t felt before. A rush of adrenaline but darker, brutal, vicious. Whatever it was, it has an effect. All too slow, Jordan puts the gun away. His eyes come alive, burning a bright orange. What made him think pissing off a hellhound was a good idea?

The illusion pops up next to him, grounds him with a hand on his shoulder.

Jordan tilts his head to the side. Smoke curls around his upper body. Skin cracks at the neck to reveal a blaze; hellfire instead of muscles and blood and bone. The hellhound bares its teeth, fangs sharper than those of a werewolf.

“Don’t budge,” the thing in his head warns. “It bows to _us_.”

This is one of those easier said than done moments. Hellhounds are much more to handle than the average supernatural bullshit. Next to nothing can kill them – if the reports are correct. His only weapons are his kitchen knives and the garotte disguised as the faux leather bracelet around his left arm he only ever removes when he showers. It’s as much part of him as his skin, and he notices its absence, not its presence. But now it sits heavy on his wrist; a stark reminder of his defencelessness. His garotte will burn through, his knives will force him to get too close.

Yeah, he definitively won’t figure out whether those authors did their research properly or not.

Jordan’s uniform simmers through to reveal more glowing cracks in his skin. One travels from its throat down to his navel. They grow bigger and smaller with every breath. Its eyes never leave Stiles as it walks around the table and towards him. “I have not seen one of you for centuries.”

He clears his throat, the hand on shoulder gets heavier. “One of me?”

The hellhound growls, eyes flicking to the left. “Your vessel is unaware."

“Well,” the thing in his head gestures dismissively, “he was nine. Fox demon would’ve only scared him.”

“Fox _demon_?” Stiles echoes turning to look at himself. “What the fuck?” His foster family has been, right? His chest constricts painfully.

“Nogitsune,” the hellhound explains without looking away from the illusion. It doesn’t act hostile, although the burnt pieces of fabric seem to tell a different story; unless hellhounds are just as much drama queens as the thing in his- as the nogitsune is. Fox demon. He is a fucking kitsune. A ripple of excitement courses through his body. He’s a supernatural creature. _What the fuck?_ He bites the inside of his cheek to keep a smile away. Not that it’s a surprise, really. He was highly aware that he’s not completely human. But that he’s a nogitsune? A kitsune? He grins, barely supressing his urge to clap his hands together. This is perfect. He’s never bothered reading much about kitsunes. Who knows what he’s capable of doing? It’s not like the nogitsune told him a lot about its abilities. _Fucking hell_ , he’s superna- wait, _no,_ that doesn't make any sense.

Why can he use mountain ash?

It tsks. “Because we’re not ordinary.” The smile is still too wide, and amber eyes glint with malice. With its hands folded at its lower back, the nogitsune crosses the distance to look the hellhound in the eye. Jordan's taller than Stiles is, even if only by a bit. His scrawny teenager body hidden in oversized hoodies and sweatpants only makes the impression worse. Jordan’s six-pack is a great reminder of his unlucky draw in the gene pool lottery. He isn’t unathletic, he just likes to spend his time with more useful things than bench pressing and sit-ups.

“We asked for your name.”

The hellhound lowers its head. “I’ve had many names.”

Stiles stares at them. The hellhound wouldn’t meet their eyes, neither Stiles’ nor that of the illusion. “Your very first name.”

“Cerberus.”

Oh, this is fantastic. “If you’re here, who’s guarding the souls of the damned?” He quirks his brows with a small smirk.

The nogitsune looks at him with an exasperated expression of ‘ _teenagers’. Wow_ , rude. “Cerberus will guard us now, won’t you?”

“Why would he?” It’s a reasonable question. They are killing faux supernatural creatures and considered offing the banshee. Cerberus has to know that; at least if it shares a similar connection to Jordan than he does to the nogitsune. _God,_ he still can’t believe he’s supernatural. That shit’s insane.

A quiet chuckle echoes through the room. “A nogitsune is a king in the eyes of a creature of darkness.”

“Creature of darkness?” Stiles squints. Somehow, he gets the feeling that he’s has been kept completely out of the loop for whatever reason. Controlling a hellhound? How sick is that?! This job just got so much easier.

 

By the beginning of the semester, Stiles has six targets left. Jordan, who shares consciousness with Cerberus, was a big help in getting close to the faux supernatural creatures – or rather chimeras as Cerberus calls them – but it’s still Stiles who killed them, and he prefers to keep it that way. Turns out, the reason Stiles has never heard about any deaths in the news is that Cerberus carries the bodies to a tree stump called Nemeton. Apparently, that thing has magic powers which show by not burning to a crisp whenever Jordan sets a body on fire.

Although Stiles has forgiven him for lying about who he really was, he’s still spiteful. He’s made it his goal to annoy the hell out of the guy. Last night, he visited Jordan during his shift and dropped a bag of dog treats on his desk. Stilinski howled with laughter as he saw it, patted Stiles on the shoulder and told him ‘you might just be what Parrish needs to loosen up, kiddo’. It’s not entirely selfless that he demonstrates his friendship with a deputy publicly. Jordan probably knows that but they are also both aware how much it benefits the situation. Even though teenagers are simply ‘vanishing’, if a body was ever found, Jordan could simply give Stiles an alibi – and who would doubt a dutiful deputy, right?

Classes starting sounds the death bell for the rest of the chimeras. After the job is done, he considers staying for a while, maybe taking a break to hang out with Jordan. The guy was pleasantly surprised after Stiles had told him that. Perhaps he is getting too attached again, repeats a mistake he shouldn’t. But he can’t help himself. Possessed by a fox demon or not, he’s human and he doesn’t want to be alone all the time. Plus, Jordan is in on the whole thing, so, it’s not like he has to pretend to be someone he isn't.

But first, he has to go back to High School, and – oh boy – Beacon Hills High School is _different_. He has already been mildly confused about not receiving any information about a school uniform. Of course, he’s fully aware that not every single school in the US is as strict as the ones he’s been to, however, it’s the first one he visits without having to suffer through terrible uniforms. The rules on the company’s high school were also vastly different; not to mention the Christian school as well as the one for troubled kids. Stiles is surprised to find unsupervised hallways, groups of people crowding in front of lockers or couples kissing. His first school was all boys, his second and third was mixed but the genders were strictly separated. They had a hallway with lockers for the girls and one for the boys. In the classrooms, girls were on one side, the guys on the other. They also wore pants and button-ups, no skirts or dresses. Too distracting. Probably.

People have been staring at him ever since he’s set foot in the building. So, Stiles has put his hood up and kept his head down. He’s not interested in any of them and they most likely are not going to talk to him. After all, he’s the new guy ruining livelihoods over a ‘misunderstanding’. The outrage against Tara has died down sometime after New Year’s Eve and the first people spoke out against him and Theo; the latter never responded publicly to the backlash. Stiles doubts he even cares. He sure doesn’t, although, admittedly, he isn’t quite used to being goggled at. Working in the shadows is what he likes better.

Stiles reaches his classroom before the second bell rings. Mrs. Finch, the AP Biology teacher, simply waves him through. No awkward introductions then. _Thank fuck_. He doesn’t want to be the movie trope of the edgy teen who wants to be left alone. He's more the loner type who doesn’t want the nogitsune to get any fucking ideas.

When he turns to face the rest of the class, he's surprised how empty it is; Lydia sits alone in the first row, waving at him. Kira and Scott occupy the desk next to her. She beams at him. He seizes Stiles up with the caricature of a smile; polite but with the eyes of someone who’s not quite sure what to think of him. Well, good thing he doesn’t have to have an opinion on him. Alpha or not, Stiles has no interest in getting to know the guy.

Theo sits in the row behind Scott and next to Tracy. He smirks when he spots him. They haven’t seen each other since the charity event but they’ve texted back and forth the whole time. Their relationship isn’t exactly what Stiles planned for, _yet_ , but he doesn’t have to bend back over backwards to keep Theo wrapped around his little finger. It’s pretty obvious that Tracy isn’t what she clearly wants to be.

Stiles grins as he walks past and sits down at the completely empty table in the last row. All in all, from twenty chairs only sixteen are occupied right now.

A book slams shut.

Mrs. Finch looks up from her list. Scott, Kira, and Lydia turn around to see what’s going on. Theo shoves his AP Biology book into his backpack, followed by a pen and notebook. “What’s the plan?” Mrs. Finch asks as he gets to his feet, “Class isn’t over. In fact, it’s about to start.”

Theo slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Just switching desks.” His smirk is charming, but Finch only quirks a brow. As a teacher, she’s probably used to people like him.

“Hey.” Tracy turns, yet hesitates to reach out. “Theo, what the hell?”

Scott and Kira exchange a quick glance and Lydia purses her lips disapprovingly as Theo sits down next to Stiles. His backpack hits the floor with a thud, and he grins. “Hi,” he says softly, and his fuckboy smirk shifts into a genuine smile for all but a second. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Stiles has almost forgotten how pretty he is. Like, his lips have a really kissable shape. Honestly, Theo is the first person he won’t mind sleeping with for the job. He might be an ass but at least his looks are working for him.

“As announced, you will be working on an exercise sheet in duos.” Mrs. Finch taps on a slim stack of papers without looking away from the class. “I will put you in pairs. Theo, you can stay put. As for the rest of you-“ Isn’t it lovely when teachers are playing exactly into his hands? It is. Honestly, it’s perfect.

Theo doesn’t seem to disagree. He nudges his thigh and grins.

 

About twenty minutes later, Stiles wishes he could set the guy on fire. He pulls the exercise sheet towards him as Theo runs a hand through his hair. Saying he has trouble working in a team is an understatement. Stiles hates it. He hates putting up with other people’s incompetence, and he’s terrible at compromising. In fact, he is the type of guy who finishes the work alone before it’s not done the way _he_ wants it.

“The third answer is still wrong.” Stiles taps his finger against the paper.

Theo rolls his eyes. “No, it’s correct.”

“No, it’s not! It told you-”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Theo hisses yanking the exercise sheet back to him. It’s not that he’s stupid. They agreed on most answers pretty quickly. It’s just this one Theo’s making a fuss about.

“I’ll bet you anything you’re wrong.”

“Fine.” Theo turns on his chair and looks at him properly, chin placed on one hand. “What are the stakes?” The bastard tilts his head a little to the side, lips quirking into a smirk Stiles starts loving to hate. “If you’re so sure you’re right, we should make it something-" He pauses, and his smirk stretches into a wide grin- “ _fun_.”

This suggestive, smug little motherfucker.

His fingernails bite into the skin of his palms. Punching that expression off his face is most likely worth it, even if he’d break his fingers doing so. The guy went from handsome to punchable in the space of not even half an hour.

Theo licks his lips. “Careful,” he whispers leaning a little closer, “it’s your first day. You don’t wanna give people the wrong impression, do you?” The chuckle sets his teeth on edge, and Stiles curls both his hands around the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white. Breathe in, breathe out. This is totally fine. He’s not going to do anything stupid. Theo brushes his free hand against Stiles’, who pulls away so fast he almost topples off his chair.

Mrs. Finch looks up from her work eyeing them with a slightly pinched expression.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Your ass must be pretty jealous of all the shit coming out of your mouth.”

Theo chuckles. “Do you think about my ass often?”

In through the nose, out through the mouth. He’s not going to let this prick get under his skin any more than he already did. “The answer is Twin Embolization Syndrome  _and_  Fetomaternal Microchimerism.”

Theo’s smug grin slowly slips off his lips as he stares at him. “No.”

“What do you mean no?” Stiles fishes for the exercise sheet, but Theo slams his hand on top of it, clearly aggravated – and here Stiles thought he displays difficulty cooperating during group works. “Theo, if I get anything less than an A because of you, I will shove my-"

“Mr. Milewski.” Of course, Mrs. Finch chooses this exact moment to appear at their desk. “I recommend you do not finish your sentence. Are you done?”

His eyes dart to the exercise sheet. Well, technically he is done. Stiles grabs his notepad and rips the page with the answers out he’d written down after he realised Theo doesn't listen to him. “Yes.” Stiles scribbles his name on top of the page.

“This is partner work.” Finch crosses her arms. “I can only accept answers both students agreed on.” Okay, she’s screwing with him. Fucking hell, that’s just horse shite at this point.

Stiles narrows his eyes at Theo, who presses his lips into a thin line. A few seconds later, he snatches the sheet of paper out of Stiles' hand and dots his name underneath his. “These are  _our_  answers,” he agrees with a tight smile, not breaking eye contact.

Mrs. Finch takes it. “Behave,” she orders quietly before leaving them to their own devices again.

Stiles leans back in his chair. “You can make it up to me later.”

Theo responds with an almost wolfish expression. “I’ll be really nice to you if that’s gonna be an A.”

“I’m willing to forgive you if you come begging on your knees.”

He barks out a laugh. The sound cuts through the silence like a gunshot causing the whispering of their classmates to stop. Tracy glares at Stiles as if he’s just committed a mortal sin. Mrs. Finch shakes her head before looking down at their paper. Of fucking course, Theo does not apologise for his interruption. He leans closer instead, eyes glinting with something that paves a way straight to his dick. Oh,  _what the hell_. “There’s nothing I would get on my knees for. Usually, it works the other way around.”

Stiles blinks. What? Attraction has never burned down as fast as it did right now. This guy- holy shit. “You’re unique, Theo, you really are.” Quirking a brow, Stiles watches as the grin on his lips widens. Something's got to be incorrectly wired in his head. “I’ve never met someone who has their head so far up their ass, they need a stepladder to reach it.”

Theo mouths ‘wow’ and presses a hand to his chest. He laughs again, albeit quieter this time. It does not prevent Mrs. Finch from looking at them with a clear warning in her eyes. Scott, who’s been partnered up with the girl sitting in front of them, glances at them over his shoulder as well. He has the same pinched expression Lydia wears whenever she is looking at Theo. There had to have been some fallout between their groups. Otherwise, this behaviour is truly ridiculous – although Kira and Tracy seem to get along okay. Then again, Kira is the kind of girl who’d sent someone Get Well Soon cards when they stubbed their little toe.

“Oh, come on.” Theo’s chair scrapes over the tiles. Stiles gets the feeling he wants people to notice. His body heat is a prominent reminder of Theo’s proximity, almost more than the fingertips threatening to touch his arm. “You have to throw me a bone here.” His voice drops, and Stiles finds himself leaning closer to catch his next words, “I know you like me.” Yeah, the asshole probably caught his scent. That’s usually typical werewolf behaviour. The second he’s talking about other people’s heartbeats any doubt will be removed. “I promise yo-“

Before Theo can finish his sentence, the windows explode.


	7. payment

Stiles never doubted he reached his lowest point in life when he had to wade through faecal matter and god knows what else to retrieve his phone. It was broken, of course, and the possibility of it being found as well as connected to a murder case was close to zero. Not zero. Just _close_ to zero. So, he bought a new phone, flashlight, waders, gloves and spent four hours searching for it. Around every corner, he expected to meet cryptids, rats infected with a virus that made them larger than life or junkies. He was a fifteen-year-old boy with a rich imagination; at least that’s what people told him. Most of the time, it’s not a bad character streak to have. His job requires creativity, flexibility and the uncanny ability to wing it instead of panicking. While walking through the sewers of Philadelphia, all this only made him more paranoid.

He’s far from paranoia and far from reeking of shit, vomit and whatever had been in that water. Still, he has most definitively reached a new low – and he really ain’t a fan. Being called out on social media is one thing. Whatever. Who cares? He doesn’t have social media and after four years of being called and treated as a spawn of Satan, there honestly isn’t much that could possibly scar him. There are some people whose lives are ruined because of what has been posted on the internet. Tara’s café has lost quite the amount of customers because, after all, she looks worse in that scenario than he and Theo do.

“What a first day, am I right?” Scott sits down opposite him. A small smile dances on his lips as he folds his arms on the table. Since Stiles doesn’t answer and simply stares at him, he continues, tapping a fingertip against the wood, “I just wanted to apologise on behalf of the lacrosse team and-"

Stiles pushes his lunch away; macaroni and cheese isn’t his favourite anyway – and the quality of the cooks can only be questioned severely. “I don’t want an apology from you.” Bearing grudges is a past time activity he usually doesn’t participate in. It’s pointless and turns human kind into bitter old people who raise their cane resentfully at everyone not quite fitting their worldview. His goal in life is to adopt stray dogs living somewhere in the middle of nowhere and become the mysterious but loved man in a small town everyone knows by name. The problem is, humanity has proven rather quickly that becoming bitter and resentful is the only way to go because _holy shit_ people are fucking idiots and so spoiled by money that they do anything for 50 dollars; even go as far as throwing lacrosse balls with ‘whore’ written on them in bright red letters through a window.

His classmates looked around the room as if they actually needed to think about who this attack could possibly be directed at, and it’s not even that Stiles was bitter because _he_ is the victim. People could throw whatever his way, he doesn’t _care_. It’s the fact that people don’t think about the potential consequences such actions have when they are directed at a person who doesn’t have thick skin. But the worst by far to come out of that whole thing was that he had two options, run around with a ruined sweater – because breaking windows comes with glass and glass really doesn’t like fabric all too much; wet paint, on the other hand, is blatantly in love with everything it could catch on – or wear Theo Raeken's Letterman jacket which he has so kindly offered. Since Stiles thought Letterman jackets simply have the school’s name as well as the sports team on their back, he agreed.

And thus, he reached the lowest low. Because now he had to run around not only with a giant 83 on his back, _no_ , underneath it, in bright red letters, is the name Raeken. Stiles only realised that after someone asked him if it was standard practice to wear the name of his latest john. Humour was the way to reply with while internally promising himself Theo would suffer through extra rounds of torturous torture before he'll ultimately off the fucker. Of course, he didn’t tell him about that little extra, only helped him into the jacket like a proper gentleman. Stiles can’t believe he’s been outplayed by a football jock.

“Yeah, no- I get it. I just want to-“

“Convince me to go tell Principal Martin to unban the lacrosse team?” Since only a single person stepped up telling Coach Finstock that he had an envelope with fifty dollars and an instruction in his locker, everyone has been suspended from the team who wasn’t in class or could otherwise prove not to be involved in the incident – and as nobody stepped forward to clear the case up, the whole team was prohibited from playing until the culprits are found. “I don’t fucking care what’ll happen to you guys. You done fucked up. Deal with it.” Even if he were swayed to ask for a lesser punishment for the poor lacrosse team, it wouldn’t go anywhere. Finstock and Martin both agreed on it before Stiles has even been questioned by them.

Scott frowns. “You’re pretty harsh. People make mistakes-"

“Pal, they vandalised the school to bully someone for _fifty fricking dollars._ That’s not a mistake, that’s being absolutely braindead.” He's made his share of mistakes, and he certainly will continue to make some more. It’s part of being human, fox demon in his head or not. But _good lord_ , if you decide to do something stupid, do it for more than Ulysses S. Grant; especially knowing how much money the instigator has. There isn’t a name or handwriting on the instruction letters but even the two police officers who have been called to the scene shared a look of understanding.

“But what you did to Tara-"

“Oh, spare me the lecture.”

“You should’ve talked to her before you acted.” _Think before you speak_. He sounds like his foster mother.

Also, it’s not like he hasn't tried. He did talk to her. He _told_ her he wasn’t a prostitute. Maybe he overreacted, most certainly he could have handled the situation differently. Should he have made this public? Probably not. He should’ve let Theo handle the bullshit with his sister on his own. But he was pissed and hurt and disappointed. Does he regret doing it? Absolutely not. In fact, he’d do it again. Especially now. Yeah, sure, innocent until proven guilty. But fucking hell, this whole family consist of ignorant pieces of human low-lives who think money gets them whatever the hell they want.

“And you should keep your nose out of business that isn’t yours.”

“But I-“

“Scotty!” Theo puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Playing the good Samaritan again, are we?”

Stiles picks at his muffin listlessly. Spending his lunch period outside was supposed to give him some privacy. Being around too many people for an extended period of time makes him fidgety and gives the nogitsune terrible ideas. But despite the shoddy weather – it stopped raining, yet the wind is convincing enough for most to stay inside the cafeteria – people are refusing to leave him alone.

“I’m apologising on behalf of the lacrosse team.”

“Classic Scott McCall, always defending people as long as it’s beneficial to his own cause.” Theo’s voice is sugar and spice and everything nice, but his expression doesn’t match the tone. His face is all sharp edges and aggressive angles. For a second, Stiles sees himself in him, a boy who’s been wronged by someone who was supposed to be good; for a moment, Stiles remembers himself staring at the social worker – before he took his cigarette and rolled it to the dirty old rug in the middle of the hallway waiting for it to catch on fire.

He was ready to ask for help, to beg for it if necessary. Then he found out that someone who was supposed to help children in need knocked one out over young girls in short skirts or dresses. One of the girls was his foster sister. His relationship with her couldn’t be defined as particularly developed. They got along, though, and Stiles always had very strong feelings about family. As a big brother, it was his job to look out for her. He still would.

In hindsight he regretted killing him; child molesters are known to have a terrible time in prison and a very slim survival rate.

“-k Stiles.”

“What?” His attention span is not at his best today. “Sorry, I zone out when I’m bored.”

Theo snorts out a laugh, expression shifting into genuine delight. Scott, however, furrows his brows, “don’t drag him into that. It’s _your_ past.”

“If you’re allowed to have such a strong opinion about _my past_ , it would only be fair to let someone else have one too.” Not that he’s the right person to be the jury for this but as long as Theo’s fine with whatever happened, and he hasn't seriously hurt someone who the fuck actually gives a shit?

Stiles tosses a piece of the dry, questionably tasting chocolate muffin into his mouth when Theo says, “Tara told everyone I tried to kill her.”

“ _What_?” He asks with a mouthful, swallows, and stares at him with raised brows.

“Why would she make that up?” Scott interjects before Theo has the chance to reply.

His shoulders tense as he grinds his teeth, jaw a sharp line. This is getting wild, honestly. Not that the guy is entirely innocent. Tossing around sentences like ‘I'd kill to be an only child’ surely doesn't help to disperse these allegations. “I was nine,” Theo adds after a short pause. “ _Nine_. She was sixteen at the time.”

Stiles throws the muffin onto his tray with a frown. “What happened?” Sixteen and nine is quite a difference in years. Not that it’s impossible. It’s just _unlikely_. The documented list of murderers of the ages ten and younger is short; it does exist, yes, and it doesn’t exactly get much longer if you up the age to twelve. Eleven and a half, that’s when he lost his innocence and from then on out, it has gone downhill.

Scott opens his mouth, but Theo beats him to it. Rightfully so, considering it is his story. “I was in the woods with a friend. My parents sent Tara to get me home and because I didn’t want to go, we got in a fight. When I didn’t have any arguments left, I shoved her and ran away.” As some nine-year-old boys would do. Reacting physically isn’t exactly _that_ surprising in a situation of heightened anger. People could argue that violence isn’t an option but they're kids; they are learning.

On another note, “ask the friend then.” The fact that Theo isn’t denying his aggressive reaction speaks volumes – and honesty, it is really fucking hard to believe a boy aged nine tries to murder his sister. _Now,_ he probably would believe when someone told him Theo tried to kill Tara. But when he was nine?

“The friend conveniently disappeared,” Scott tells him, and a sudden onslaught of sadness drops on Stiles' lunch plate. _Fucks sake_.

Theo bares his teeth momentarily. It’s like a slip-up, a mistake in editing an old movie because it doesn’t take more than a blink for his features to have rearranged into blissful scorn. “He was kidnapped, okay? I went back into the woods. He was gone.”

“And then they kidnapped you?” Scott doesn’t look convinced. No ransom notes then, he supposes. Otherwise, nobody would doubt a kidnapping story. “Are these the same people who _kidnap_ your friends right now?” _Damn_. The guy plunges the knife deep. After everything he's read and heard about Scott that comes as a surprise.

Theo puts his hands on the table. “Careful what you’re insinuating.”

Stiles grabs his arm. “That’s uncalled for, asshole.” He merely throws a glance in Scott’s direction before slipping off the bench. It is ironic and, honestly, fucked up that he killed the other chimeras and simultaneously tells Scott off, but tact, man, _tact_.  “Let’s go.”

Theo doesn’t need to be asked twice.

“No, _Stiles_ , hold up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a smile blooming on Theo’s lips, genuine and pleased and bordering on cruel. But when he turns his head to look at him, it’s replaced by a lopsided grin. Theo curls an arm around his shoulders, and for some reason, Stiles feels like a trophy won in an already uneven match. Briefly, he frowns. Ultimately, he doesn’t say anything and lets Theo have his self-taken spot on the winner's podium.

 

“Ototo!”

Stiles is instantly wide awake. His senses are heightened with the instinct to fight or flight, ears ringing with the nogitsune’s yell. He throws the blanket back and rolls off the mattress. His bare feet meet the cold laminate without a sound. In the other room, the floor creaks. Stiles hurries to the door. _There’s someone inside his apartment._ A human, most likely. _Or something like me_.

“Impossible,” it whispers tiptoeing alongside him. “I’d know.”

Slowly, Stiles pushes the door to the living room open. With the moon covered by thick clouds, it lays dark before him. Only the streetlamp directly in front of the apartment building spends a minimum amount of light. No shadows are moving. But Stiles senses something wrong, something that doesn’t belong. The rain he hasn’t heard in his inlying bedroom slams against the windows. If he weren’t so trusting of his instincts, he’d go back to bed and sign his death certificate.

A chill runs down his spine as the feeling of not being completely alone intensifies. He takes a step into the room, not quite hesitant but careful. His muscles tense. Every single second passing by might be the one he is jumped. Hair lifts on the back of his neck. The space behind him is big enough to fit a person, big enough to have someone slip past and into his bedroom. Possibly without him noticing. He curls his hands into fists, shifts from his left to the right foot until he turns his attention towards the kitchen. He has his garrotte. But he’s got knives as well – and whoever’s in this house might have already found one.

He’s not going to get stabbed with his own fucking knives, all right?

The sound of the rain is so much louder than his own steps, but the silence inside the apartment is heavy – too much almost. It’s almost as if even the fridge decided to stop its humming to hide in the darkness.

Before he gets to his knives, the TV behind him switches on startling him with female noises from the typical late-night advertisements. If whoever is in here likes to play games, he will be thoroughly disappointed. “Are you too scared to attack?” Stiles asks running his fingers along the kitchen counter. Five steps to the knife block. Four if he reaches for them. His attacker will have moved by step three.

He’s prepared for it. He's prepared for an attack during every second ticking by. The nogitsune is silent, hovering in the back of his consciousness like a light in the distance on a dark night; reassuring but not distracting.

The floor creaks behind him. Stiles spins around, brings both hands up. A syringe catches the light off the television. _Fucking coward_. Stiles steps back, readjust his grip and yanks the guy forward. Before he can smack into him, he tears a cupboard door open. The guy's head collides with the wood. He groans, tumbles backwards. Stiles rips the syringe out of his hand, turns and smashes it in the sink. He manages to get the water on before the guy rams his knee in the small of his back. It fucking _hurts._  Stiles bites back a groan. He stumbles momentarily, searches hold by the sink. Fingers curl into the strands of his hair before he’s pulled away.

Stiles fumbles for something within reach. Fingertips graze a plate. _Too loud_. But next to the plate is the wooden salt shaker. That should work. He leans forward and to the right, ignores the sharp pain in his scalp. His grip is tight around the shaker. He turns enough in the hold to minimise the risk of missing and brings it down on the attacker's head. A groan echoes through the room. The hand vanishes. Stiles turns and reaches back for another attack, but the guy ducks then tackles him.

Again, he crashes into the edge of the counter. The guy slams his wrist against the countertop. Stiles bites back a yelp, and the salt shaker rolls away from him. _Fuck_. He breathes through the stinging ache, clenches his teeth. With one hand pinned down, he’s too slow to react. His attacker’s fist connects with his cheekbone. Pain explodes behind his eye. His head whips to the side and he loses his balance. He hits the ground hard. Ache echoes through his bones. _This motherfucking piece of-_ he grabs him by the feet, drags him across the floor. Stiles grapples for something to hold onto. Finds nothing. A second time, finger bury in the strand of his hair and he’s yanked back to his feet. The arm around his throat makes it harder to breathe. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“Nice to finally meet you.” That voice; Stiles freezes. “You haven’t logged on to our last meeting.” _Panther_. Now that's a rather unfortunate occurrence – and terrible timing. He really, _really_ has neither the time nor the energy to deal with a fellow assassin. The guy owns the collective intelligence of a sack of stones but is strong as hell which is why he’s always handed the cases requiring brute force. A better fitting name would have been hippopotamus or elephant because he’s neither elegant nor quiet.

“ _Ooh_ , did you miss me?”

Warm skin is replaced by cold steel as a chuckle ripples through the body behind him. Stiles closes his eyes, senses the sick entertainment curling through the air. The tip of the blade digs into his throat. A small drop of blood runs down his skin. He’s toying with him, playing a game. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. So, this is what it feels like to be on the other side? This is what it feels like to be the hunted instead of the hunter? He’s not going to lie, doesn’t feel good. But what did he expect, right? His nogitsune doesn’t exactly feed off rainbows and unicorns. Then again, he doesn’t enjoy the killing per se. It’s his job. It’s something he does, it’s something he’s good at and something he gets money for. Yet, he’s still trying to convince himself he’s protecting people, doesn’t he? He still pretends these cases are like his first one. Pretending makes it easier to relish in the pain. Just because he’s desensitized to the act of killing doesn’t mean he’s a monster.

“You’re worth a lot of money, Mischief.” Panther slides the knife down, leaves a tiny cut in its path. “Someone is willing to pay 50 million dollars for you.” _50 million dollars._ Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, tries to ignore his heart pounding in his chest. _Fuck_. That's- that’s a lot of money. “Believe me when I tell you I’m going to present your head on a silver tablet.”

 _Okay_. Eyes open. Deep breath. Focus. “And you believe I let you, yeah?”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice.”

“Think again.” Stiles grabs the blade with his left hand. The trick to succeeding against a professional killer is as dangerous as simple. Risk getting hurt during a fight puts anyone at a disadvantage. It’s a liability, a weakness, something an assailant can dig their fingers into. But it also gives him the element of surprise. Panther hisses a curse. His grip around the knife loosens just enough for Stiles to twist it, and he yanks it out of his hand. It’s a small goal. Only a moment later, he’s spun around and almost thrown headfirst against the side of a bookshelf.

His cry of pain gets stuck in his throat, then rips out of his chest together with the last of air in his lungs. The knife flies out of his hand, clatters as it hits the ground. He’s disoriented, blinks twice. He shakes the impact pain off, has to or this is going to end really quickly. Stiles presses his hands to the ground over his shoulders and brings his legs in the air, getting himself back to his feet before Panther has the chance to pin him down.

Stiles is not afraid to fight dirty, and neither is his colleague. They were taught every trick in the book, were taught multiple styles of fighting. They learned where it hurt the most, where it killed the quickest, which part of the body could fuck up the whole system. Everything Stiles had learned Panther is aware of as well. They all went through the same training’s phase; either while visiting the company’s high school or directly after being hired. The only things making them different are their abilities and experiences. And here’s the kicker: living with a creature craving pain and strife and chaos made him immune to a lot of horrors, but what numbed him to pain was his foster father. On top of that, he’ll heal – faster the more power the nogitsune has. That’s why he’s almost bled out in the middle of nowhere after being shot in the leg, and yet had no trouble with a nasty stab wound half a year later.

So, when the knife cuts through the fabric of his shirt and skin, Stiles barely flinches. Bringing a knife to a fist fight. _Adorable_. Panther grits his teeth, nose bleeding from receiving more than enough punches to his face. Stiles doubts he looks much better. He can feel a headache forming behind his left eyebrow. But he’s not getting tired. His colleague, on the other hand, starts breathing heavily. He’s used to his targets dying quickly, so he focuses on strength instead of stamina.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles uses the smallest opening to punch him in the chest. It tugs unpleasantly at the gash on his side, but he ignores it, pushes himself off the ground and forward instead. He grabs the knife as Panther aimlessly slashes in his direction again. The blade sinks deeper into the already present wound in his palm. He hisses in pain, holds onto it and curls his fingers into the short strands of dark hair. This ends now, and he’ll make an example out of him for anybody else who thinks coming for him is a good idea.

_Take what you need, he dies in like two seconds._

There’s laughter in the back of his head and the familiar sensation of feeding on pain. He doesn’t move for a few moments, holds Panther in place. He’s his age. Maybe one of two years older. Unremarkable face despite the hint of despair crawling at the edge of his features. _He knows_. He struggles, tries to free himself but can't. That's when he stops, gives up. The knife slips out from his fingers and falls to the floor. He knows he’s lost but they’ve learned not to plead. They’ve learned to accept their fate – death, police, whatever may ruin their life. Panther’s lips quirk up. “Worth a shot.” If Stiles doesn’t finish it, he'll be the one ending up on the losing side. He can’t have that.

“Anything compromising on you?”

Panther chuckles. “I'll be anything you want me to be.”

Nodding briefly, Stiles slams his head against the kitchen counter. His temple collides with its edge, and Panther collapses like a doll dropped by a little kid. His eyes are wide, mouth open in a silent cry of pain. Despite everything they’ve learned, nothing can ever prepare one for when the time comes.

Stiles lets go of the knife, watches as it clatters to the floor. _Fuck_. The palm of his hand hurts like a bitch; no matter how much he can ignore it when he has to, pain is still pain. The pounding in his head gets worse and he stumbles a few feet backward. _Shit. Fuck, fuck_. All his energy drains at once. He fumbles for something to hold on to, finds nothing and falls on his ass ungracefully.

_Heal me._

Theo pops up in his peripheral vision. Back to that, it seems. “I can’t.”

 _What do you mean, you can’t_? He turns to look at it, then follows its pointer towards the window. Rain still hammers against the glass but something else has appeared there as well. Blue and red lights flash through the darkness. Silently. Foreboding. Unmoving. _Fuck me_. Stiles slides across the ground to the sofa and pulls himself up. He’s slightly dizzy. No surprise considering how hard he’s hit the bookshelf. But it’s okay. He makes it to the door, wobbling and with the help of the wall.

Stiles breaks the mountain ash line, then turns the key. Footsteps echo up the stairs. Two people, maybe three. Someone yells something he can’t quite make out.

“You’re too calm, get in character.”

Like he doesn’t know. It’s not the first time he played the hysterical victim of a break-in. He takes another breath, deep, steady, then opens the door. The married couple living opposite him stand in their door, upon seeing him she covers her mouth in shock. Stiles falls against the doorframe. That’s not much playing. He’s getting nauseous. This seems more and more like a concussion. _Yay_.

“Stiles!” Jordan is the first up the stairs, the sheriff is on his heels. “Are you okay, are you-“

“He’s dead.” His voice quivers and his hand shakes as he points inside his apartment. “I haven’t- I didn’t-“ He forces out a sob. “I just _pushed_ him.” Crying on command has never come in handier than it does right now. He takes a deep breath as his legs start pretending they exist out of nothing but jelly. _Oh god._ He’s not going to vomit all over himself, is he? But his world spins dangerously.

The sheriff catches him before he falls. “I got you, kiddo. I got you.” He hoists Stiles up, steadies him with an arm around his chest. While the sheriff drags him back into his apartment, Jordan yells for the paramedics. Five fucking minutes more and he could’ve healed, now he has to run around with stitches and bruises.

 _Fantastic_.


	8. anger

He was supposed to stay in his apartment and rest, stay off the radar of whoever was after him. Nobody dared to say it out loud, but the paramedics and the sheriff were sure this attack had something to do with the one at school. Although Jordan learned the truth when Stiles had the chance to tell him in a few quiet seconds, he agreed with the sheriff. Police will check in on him regularly, of course. But when Stiles opened the door because he’s heard odd noises in the hallway, he found Josh sitting on the landing. He told him to piss off. For whatever reason, he hadn’t listened. Instead, Hayden has knocked on his door in the morning telling him she’s here to look after him and that she wouldn’t sit on the cold floor outside his apartment. When Corey spent the night on his couch, Stiles has had enough and guilt-tripped the guy into driving him to school. He wanted to see Theo. _Please_ , _he makes me feel so safe, yadda yadda yadda_. Really, not that complicated when you are supposed to be borderline hysterical after a crime anyway.

“You can keep your clothes on.” The air in the school's gym was thick, sweaty, absolutely disgusting and only gives him more reason never to set foot in one. Hard to believe someone with supernatural senses comes here voluntarily. Aside from Theo, Liam and Mason currently work out in the gym, even if they’re on the opposite end of the room and are too busy glaring at the chimera every now and then. Teenagers are such petty creatures.  

Theo tosses his zip hoodie over the seat of the arm press – or maybe it’s the butterfly machine. Stiles has no fucking clue how half the things in here are called, even less how they work. “I’m hot.” Sure enough, the light grey has slightly darkened near the waistband of his sweatpants. The spot is almost like an invitation to move the gaze just a little lower. His nogitsune wasn’t even close to how good the guy looks without a shirt on. Fucking hell.

Stiles’ eyes snap up realising that Theo can see him perfectly through the floor-to-ceiling mirror covering the whole left wall. “I know narcissism isn’t curable,” he begins, and he has to concentrate hard as Theo's back muscles move in the most enticing way possible. He should abort the mission and confront him somewhere else. This was a horrible idea from the start. “But I heard there are therapies that help you deal better in everyday life.” Stiles sounds almost as convincing as he intended to – and convincing enough to send at least Liam into a barely stifled laughing fit. He opts for a grin, tugs at his hood again.

“Are you here to dis me-“ Theo’s breath hitches in his throat for just the smallest second, a sound very reminiscent of the one he’s heard the nogitsune do. _This is the reason you don’t get to mimic our targets._ It’s so fucking distracting. “Or is there something you want?” Theo smirks at him through the mirror. He practically hears him say, ‘Like me?’ and it’s really fucking obnoxious.

Stiles quirks a brow, trying to maintain an unimpressed expression. “I wanna know what you want.”

“What I want?” Theo lowers the barbell and turns around to look at him with an almost curious demeanour. But the smirk won’t quite leave his lips which ruins the whole act. He understands perfectly. This is just a little game Theo seems to be quite fond of. One day, his attitude is going to bite him in the ass, and Stiles will be there to watch it happen – first row, popcorn, feet propped up on the seat in front of him. That’s a show he will not miss for anything in the world.

“Oh, _come on_.”

Liam and Mason have become suspiciously quiet.

Theo sits down on the bench in front of the mirror. “I thought you might be safer if you’re not home alone.” He grabs a dumbbell from the rack near the bench. “I owe you, after all.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” If he has the audacity to lie him in the face, Stiles will sprinkle wolfsbane on the handle of that dumbbell and shove it up his ass. There’s only so much anger he can control.

Theo doesn’t answer straight away. He can’t quite tell if it’s because he concentrates on his workout or because he wants to figure out just how far he can push Stiles before the fragile hold on his temper breaks. He has had problems with temper fluctuations ever since he was a child but hitting puberty everything has caused a sheer downfall. A nogitsune paired with bad temper paired with puberty is a polyamorous relationship nobody needs. His job does the rest. Being allowed to be as violent as all get-out isn’t exactly working against sudden bursts of anger.

Right now, his patience is running thin and thinner with every lift of the dumbbell.

“I asked you a question!” Stiles crosses the room, although he should keep his distance, he _really_ should. Because up close, Theo is even more attractive, and it’s so hard not to get the hallucination mixed up with reality. Very vivid memories of sex spring to mind; sex that has never happened.

The dumbbell hits the ground with an audible _clunk_. “Fine.” Theo’s gaze darts to Liam and Mason, then he leans back on the bench and looks up at him, his legs spread. “I think I made very clear what I want from you.” Blunt, straightforward and exactly how Stiles expected him to be. Then again, why beat around the bush? It’s fair if both parties know what’s at stake. 

“And my little bodyguards are supposed to help you get into my pants?”

Theo shrugs bending down to pick the dumbbell up again, but Stiles puts his foot on the handle. They’re not done here. “I tried to do something nice.” With a sigh, Theo crosses his arms over his thighs and scrutinises his face. Sweat made a few of his short strands stick to his temple. His skin glows a little, cheeks a pale red. His appearance makes it incredibly hard to keep a clear head.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Cut the crap.”  

“I got you into this mess, so I thought I could help you out of it.”

“You think it’s your sister?” Everyone apparently believes Tara sent someone after him. She’s a bitch, all right, but that’s a little excessive. Then again, she told everyone her brother tried to kill her when he was nine. Without that nameless friend, nobody can prove anything. It’s his word against hers although the police seem to be on Theo’s side of things. Still, if the friend had disappeared when they were nine and has not yet come back, he’s most likely dead.  

Theo places a hand on his hip just underneath the stitches. “I know Tara.” He is close and the warmth of his skin is far too noticeable through the thick fabric of his hoodie. “We were taught to win, no matter the price, so she’ll go after you relentlessly until you cave in.” His mouth turns into a soft smile and when he moves his hand, Stiles hastily steps out of reach. The last thing he needs is any sort of physical contact with the guy.  

“It was a break-in.”

Theo quirks a brow then shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Stiles.” He doesn’t move, takes in his appearance instead; as he did at the café, his eyes end up on his cheek. His gaze lingers there for a few seconds, the smile slipping off his features.

“What do you want?” He repeats the question from the beginning, and his feet carry him closer to Theo, only stopping when he stands between his legs. For a second, he wants to curl his fingers into Theo’s hair and yank his head back, just for the sake of it, to force an answer out of him. He grabs his chin instead. Theo grimaces but keeps his mouth shut. “Do you want to make me depended on you? Do you think I need you?” Stiles leans down and right into Theo’s face, disregarding all his plans to make the guy fall for him. Theo can consider himself lucky Liam and Mason are in the same room. “I don’t need a rich fuckboy who takes care of all my problems so I don’t have to.”

“Okay, _okay_.” Theo drops both his hands onto his knees. His fingers were inches away from Stiles’ legs. Even now, he’s still trying to figure out how far he can go, how close he can get. “Message received.”

Stiles huffs and shoves Theo away, who rubs his chin with a scowl. “While we’re at it,” he mutters chancing a glance in the mirror to find Liam and Mason simultaneously whirling around only to bump into each other, “tell your sister if she wants to come at me, she better swings harder next time.”

Theo tilts his head down just enough to give the impression of submission. Everyone who’s met the guy knows it’s a farce. Maybe it’s his general behaviour. Or perhaps it’s the stupid smirk refusing to slip from his lips for longer than a few minutes. Whatever it is, it’s obnoxious as hell. “I’m not your enemy.” Theo brushes his thumbs against Stiles’ knees, tips his head to the right and back. His eyes sparkle with a hard to resist mirth.

“Says every enemy ever.”

“I’m sure I’m someone’s enemy,” Theo replies quietly wrapping his hands around the back of Stiles’ legs. “Can you stop being angry at me now?” Gently, he pulls him a little bit closer and smiles _oh-so_ innocently again. It’s not as easy to ignore. Stiles really wants to put the blame on the nogitsune’s obsession with the guy, but he’s never been good at lying to himself, even though he continuously tries his best. Theo is something else. He really is, and despite all his prejudices and annoyances, Stiles wouldn’t mind getting up close and personal. There’s also the way he talks about his missing, possibly dead friend. It’s almost like he actually cares.  

Stiles lets out a long breath. “You’re lucky I’m not resentful.” Unless it applies to his foster mother, cause that’s a whole other story. “If I see one of your friends around my apartment-"

“You won’t.” Theo squeezes the back of his thighs.

With a chuckle, Stiles pokes his forehead. “Now that that’s settled, I better get home and rest, or Jordan freaks out on me again.”

Theo gets to his feet, grinning as he reaches for his unharmed cheek and cups it. “Maybe I can come by after practice. Sure, I can take good care of you.” It’s either his goddamn brain or everything the guy says is vaguely suggestive. Not that he’d mind if that’s the case. To be fair, sleeping with someone he finds attractive would be nice for once considering that it has not really happened before.

Stiles bites his bottom lip. “You could bring some food.”

“Sounds like a date.”

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” Theo laughs, loud and genuine; and Stiles can’t quite help himself but grin as he leaves the gym.

 

“Are you _nervous_?” The nogitsune sits cross-legged on the counter watching as Stiles rummages through his kitchen for snacks or something that could pose as snacks; supernatural metabolism or not, Theo’s most likely not shovelling chips into his mouth. If he eats at all. Doesn’t look like there’s an ounce of fat on his body. Aside from his ass. He's got a great ass.

“I’m not nervous,” Stiles says ripping open his freezer. He still has a pineapple, strawberries and a few apples. That could be enough for a fruit plate. Does he have chocolate? He knows there is a chocolate fondue somewhere in this apartment. His plan was to make good use of it when this case is over. But it’s probably just as good for tonight. Or is that too date-like? _Jesus fucking Christ_ , this is not his strong suit. No, wait. It is. He's great at shit like that. Seriously. During the case before this one, he’s prepared a brilliant date night. Wait. This isn’t supposed to be a date night.

 _Oh god_.

The nogitsune almost topples off the counter laughing, and Stiles shoots a scathing look in its direction. _Fucker_.

“Rude,” it comments crossing its arms behind its head and leans against the window. “You like him. It’s perfectly normal to be nervous the first time you’re alone.”

Stiles jabs a finger in its direction. “This is all just because you’re obsessed with the guy.” Back to pretending he goes. If he sets his mind to it, he can ignore a problem until it quietly vanishes into the night. It’s great.

Scoffing the nogitsune hops off the counter. “It would be nice to sleep with someone attractive for once.” It waves its hand through the air before literally booping his nose. The things he has to suffer through. Holy shit. “Your thoughts, not mine. I just have a taste for his exquisite anger.” Being scolded by himself used to be a particular kind of weird. Now it’s more like talking to a reflection that has a life of its own – and it’s easier to talk to himself than have Hallucination-Theo hanging around his apartment all the goddamn time.

It tsks. _Wow._ “You didn’t complain when I took his form in the shower. Also-" It waves its hand around as if attempting to swat away a nasty fly- “I don’t get why you never fuck someone just for fun.”

“Can you be helpful for once?” Stiles glowers and turns back to the freezer. Sex is part of his job. It’s a means to an end. Honestly, it’s not even particularly exciting or good. The only thing he gets out of it is killing someone while sleeping with them. _That's_ an exquisite pain.

“Sometimes you worry me, ototo.” The nogitsune props its head on his shoulder and squints at the contents. When Stiles decides not to continue the topic it points at the pineapple. “They say it makes cum taste better.”

Groaning, he slams the freezer shut. “This is like talking to a middle schooler. Get your mind out of the gutter. _Please_.”

“Technically, this is your mind too.” Stiles can’t roll his eyes hard enough. Although he’s not totally sure about the logistics of this whole backseat driver problematic, he knows that they _are_ two separate entities. The nogitsune might be aware of what Stiles is thinking and can make him hallucinate, but he has no way of influencing it. Instead, he has to deal with this annoying little parasite nibbling away at his mind.

“We talked about 'parasite'.”

Stiles swats at it. “It's a term of endearment."

His phone catches his attention, and he exchanges a quick glance with the nogitsune before pulling it out of the pocket of his jeans.

>> _Something came up. Are you free tomorrow?_

 _What the actual fuck_? Is this stupid prick ditching him half an hour before he’s supposed to come over? Bullshit. The guy started hitting on him the second they met and now that Theo has the chance to be alone with him something better came up? _Wow_ , just _wow_. Not gonna lie, that’s pretty disappointing. He is so close to the last round. _So close_. Sure, he could just keep killing them from a distance but the second he touches Corey or Hayden, all hell is breaking loose. So, he wants to savour every single one of their deaths. The others have been loners after suddenly breaking off any kind of connection to the outside world. Everyone not being chosen to be part of Theo’s inner circle was hunching in the shadows. The police are looking into their disappearance but almost all of them have reasons to run away and start a new life.

Stiles glares at his phone, then tosses it across the room. _Asshole._

The nogitsune cackles diabolically. “Maybe he wants you to beg him to come over.” It runs a finger up and down his spine, then steps in front of him as Theo smirking in perfect imitation. “Maybe I need the confirmation.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“You want me.” It- he- _it_ cups his cheeks, runs a thumb over his button lip. “Stop denying it.” The fingers softly brush through his hair, and Stiles makes the mistake to close his eyes. A second passes, maybe two, and he’s swiftly turned around and walked backwards until his back hits the dining table. The grip on his hair tightens to a point that’s almost bordering on uncomfortable and yet differs completely from what had happened with Panther. Instead of a knife, a mouth latches on to his throat. Soft, gentle, almost apologetic. They part to suck skin between his teeth.

Stiles gasps, holding onto the edge of the table behind him as best as he can.

The mouth wonders up and to the left, closes above his pulse point when a leg forces its way between his thighs. He whines low in his throat and presses his hips down.

“There you go,” Theo chuckles – and Stiles really doesn’t know what’s so funny. Nothing’s funny currently. Nothing at all.

His eyes fly open. “Stop.”

“What?”

“Stop, this isn’t- it’s not _enough_.” It’s not real. He needs something solid underneath his palms. Someone who’s actually with him. Living. Breathing. Someone who bleeds, someone who breaks, a heart he can stop. He needs to do _something_ to someone or he’s going insane.

The nogitsune lets out a long breath morphing back into his doppelganger. That’s better anyway _._ “Sex is about having fun, ototo.”

“I don’t _want_ sex, okay?” Stiles curls his hands into fists and pushes away from the table. “Someone is ready to pay money for my death and the company kicks me to the curb.” His nails dig into the scab on his palm. It stings as the wound cracks open again. The sensation is strangely satisfying even if not calming. On the contrary, it only makes him want to hurt somebody else even more. _Really_ hurt someone. Preferably someone from the company. He’d like to send a message, one he couldn’t send through Panther because of his stupid fucking neighbours who called the police. They heard noises of a fight, and Lydia called Jordan about a premonition. A pre-schooler could’ve done the math.

“What’s the plan, tie your name to another death?” The nogitsune grabs his upper arm. “Everyone in town knows your face because you just had to throw a temper tantrum.” How he handled Tara wasn’t smart, he’s aware of that. With Theo being the executioner, though, Stiles hasn’t considered himself to become a target. Obviously, he was wrong, blinded by anger over something that shouldn’t have mattered in the first place. But this, _this_ is different.

It scoffs. “Oh, is it really?”

“The company wants me dead, I think I have a right to be pissed off.”

“If you don’t get a handle on that anger, your pretty face is going to be in serious trouble.”

“Well, I need another face then, don’t I?” One that would last longer than the first reflective surface crossing his path. This is fucking _stupid_. Seriously. Fuck _everything._ Huffing out a breath, he pushes past the nogitsune and stalks to his phone. Of course, it didn’t hit the hard floor. No. It had to drop onto the sofa. Not even that works the way he wants it to. Fucking hell. _Fucking hell_. He hates everything.

Grabbing his phone, he drops onto the couch and hisses, as the movements jostle his stitches. He really would like to tear them out, let the nogitsune heal the gash and be done with it. But he can’t. Because he’s supposed to go to the hospital on Monday to get them removed, and unless he wants to blow his cover there’s nothing he can do about it. Isn’t that fantastic? He should kill the banshee. Also, he should move out of this apartment and buy a house in the woods. Somewhere far away from this city, preferably – does he even still paid for this job? If the company has put his name on a hit list, he might not receive any money for killing another chimera. Unless they gloss it over. They are totally going to gloss it over and pay him as long as he’s still kicking, aren’t they? He should probably check in with Jordan about that.

Stiles grinds his teeth. God, he should’ve listened and rejected the job. Simple as that. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with Theo and his attraction to him. His life could’ve been uncomplicated. But _no_.

Soundlessly, the nogitsune walks over to him. “About the second face-"

“I know, we could use your illusions. It’s just-"

Gesturing dismissively, it shakes its head. “There’s something better. You know that a few old kitsunes have learned how to shapeshift?” Surprisingly, unlike werecoyotes, werewolves and kitsunes rarely learn a full shift. Stiles has never met one who could, and he’s read that it might not even be one percent of their respective populations who possess the ability.

“I know how to shift.”

 _Huh_. “Nice of you to tell me that after almost nine years of being stuck with you.” Stiles sends a grim smile in its direction, ignores the eye-roll and leans back into the cushions. “But I don’t know how shifting into a fox is gonna help me.”

“Not a fox. You’re obsessed with research and yet haven’t look it up _once_.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it rubbing a hand over his nape. _Busted_. But in his defence, being stuck with a nogitsune should come with one giant info dump instead of a tiny one whenever necessary.

It rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath. “We can’t turn someone into a kitsune. You are born one or you aren’t.”

“But you are possessing me.”

“That’s a whole other story, ototo.” Which Stiles makes a mental note about. He’s going to get his information without having to dumpster dive through the world-wide-web. “If a kitsune is with child from a human, there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’ll become either. That's not enough to secure a dying race. You get where I’m heading, don’t you?” It’s not that complicated, actually. They became an endangered species and had to make do in order to survive. So, if two female kitsunes met one could change into a male. “Exactly. With hunters breathing down our necks and being at war with the werewolves, we had to ensure our survival somehow. Many young kitsunes who haven’t learned how to heal yet have died attempting it, so this magic has been banned. But I was there when it was first taught.”

This is hilarious. There are animals who have been observed to change their sex. Fucking _clownfish_ can change their sex – and powerful kitsunes struggle with that kind of magic?

The nogitsune scrunches up its face. “Our bodies are a bit more complex than that of a fish.”

Okay, he’s hit a sore spot. _Gotcha_. “Why haven’t you told me before?”

“Because it comes with a price. If you want to bring chaos upon this town, I will be the last to stop you. But things are going to change.”

“What kind of changes are we talking about?”

“Well, for starters you have to let me in. You get superhuman strength, speed, magic- every positive trait a kitsune has.” Which does not sound bad at all. It really doesn’t. So, there has to be a resonating but. Stiles quirks his brows and the nogitsune chuckles. “ _But_ you will be weak to wolf lichen. It can kill us if the dose is high enough.” That sure sucks. Still, in comparison to the power he gains, it’s not that bad of a deal. Unless- his eyes dart to the line of mountain ash. “No. I told you, we’re not affected.” It becomes quiet and frowns. “You will need to feed on emotions to survive. Human food won’t cut it, and there won’t be any more illusions for you. This-“ it gestures back and forth between them- “will be a thing of the past.”  

 _Oh_. Stiles gets to his feet, turning away from the nogitsune. His chest constricts. _Shit_. He never thought this would actually get to him. He bites his lip, then clears his throat multiple times before he gets a word out, “so, we won’t be able to talk?” He can’t bring himself to ask _are you gone then_? Since he can remember, it has been with him. Stiles doesn’t know how it feels to be alone. He doesn’t want to _know_ how it feels to be all alone. It scares the living shit out of him just thinking about having his thoughts all to himself. As often as he cursed it, he doesn’t want to miss it. Despite everything, the nogitsune is the closest thing to family he has… will _ever_ have.

Arms curl around his waist. “I can still talk to you,” it says softly nuzzling the crook of his neck. “But you won’t be able to see me. Not when you’re awake, at least.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach. That’s okay, he guesses, if they can still talk and he can still see it when he’s asleep. It’s lucid dreaming, essentially, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve interacted in his dreams either. That will be enough, won’t it? They used to go months without talking. He’s just gotten so used to it being around the last few days; and change is always scary. Change always sucks in the beginning.

“It’s your choice, ototo.”

He takes a deep breath, then sets his jaw. Fuck it. First his foster father, then the social worker, his contact after that, now Tara and the company. People are so prone to screwing him over, to betray his trust, it’s about time he claps back. _Hard_. “Let’s do this.”

The nogitsune chuckles, presses his lips to the shell of his ear. “You’re going to be my perfect little fox.”


	9. heat

_Do I get tails?_

Stiles swears he hears a groan in the back of his mind but the sound quiets so fast, he can’t be a hundred percent sure. **No.**

 _Why not_?

**Because nogitsunes don’t have tails _._**

_Yeah, but why not_?

This time, it does groan, loudly and lengthy and absolutely annoyed. It’s not Stiles’ fault the nogitsune never told him anything, all right? ‘I needed to be sure you’re ready’. That’s fucking bullshit. Then again, he has to hurt people for his own survival. It doesn’t matter if it’s physical or emotional pain. That’s still the kind of information it couldn’t just dump on a child. Now, with Stiles being numb to inflicting pain, the situation is completely different. Although that doesn’t mean he’s going around hurting random people. He’ll make sure to find someone who deserves it. A killer, a cheat, the resident jock. He’ll contrive ways and means to get what he wants; including to bug the hell out of his partner in crime.

**The elders have stripped us of our bodies, tails and exiled us from the kitsune community.**

That sounds like it sucks _a lot_.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Theo says crossing his arms over the handle of the shopping cart, “I’m glad you aren’t mad at me anymore and I’m totally down to help you out but being ignored the whole time is kinda a turnoff.”

“If you hadn't ditched me last second,” Stiles mutters dropping the bag of apples into the card, then turns to smile at him, sweet and fake, “we wouldn’t have that problem.”

Theo lowers his head onto his crossed arms with a frown. “I already told you I am _sorry_ , okay? What else do you want to hear?”

Stiles shakes his head before focusing on the nogitsune again. It's important to use the moments its actually giving him answers, even if it happens while being grocery shopping with Theo Raeken. _What did you do_?

 **We started the war with the werewolves**.

Of course, they did. For being pretty powerful, nogitsunes turn out to be really fucking stupid. **I beg your pardon**. Stiles glances at his grocery shopping list and waves Theo along. _It’s true_. The more he learns about them, the more he worries that he’s royally screwed himself. All their stories revolve around their craving for food. Typical trickster shit. Yes, they are insanely powerful and a bitch to kill, but they are too greedy for their own good. Greedy enough, it turns out, to get themselves cast out of their own community. _Aren’t werewolves technically creatures of darkness?_

**Yes.**

_And you pissed them off_.

**Potentially _._**

Theo trudges dutifully alongside him while Stiles contemplates the fruits and vegetables. He hooks a finger around the metal to stop the cart. His eyes dart from the bananas to Theo who is turning a pineapple in his hand. _For fucks sake_. “ _Hey_!” Stiles calls startling an elderly couple. Theo has spent the morning apologising to him via text, phone calls and then once more in person after school. Stiles wasn't even mad any longer, just distracted. Doesn’t mean he isn’t still totally ready to humiliate the guy in public. “Can you, like, worry about the taste of your cum after I’m done with my grocery shopping?” He waves his list around.

The couple stares at him in bewilderment. Theo snorts out a laugh. Briefly, he glances in the direction of the extremely flustered woman whispering something into her husband’s ear which only causes his lips to curl into a large smirk. Now, that’s never a good sign. “Blow me,” he shoots back after a few seconds, his voice a smidgen louder than strictly necessary.

That’s a game two can play. “I just might if you proved useful once in your fucking life.”

The woman drops the grapes she is holding and presses a hand to her chest while the husband scrutinises the pineapple in Theo's hand as if he has the epiphany of his lifetime. Stiles really can’t decide if he wants to laugh or look away like the teenager in him begs him to do when confronted with the prospect of people above sixty having sex. He heaves a sigh of relief when this particular decision is taken away from him as the wife drags her husband away from the fruits and they vanish somewhere between the aisles of the supermarket.

Stiles snatches the pineapple away from Theo and sets it back down between its cousins and siblings. “This is still not going to help you get laid.”

Theo draws his eyebrows in. “You really are a piece of work.”

“I told you I’m not easy.”

**Fun. Have fun.**

Like he’s going to let a creature dictate his life that has managed to exile its own kind by abusing power and making one of its underlings revolt. _Rookies_. But the nogitsune only snorts, then falls silent. It’s odd to feel how it literally pulls back from the forefront of his mind instead of having it simply go radio silent on him. This will need some time to adjust to, just as much as the fact that he’s not having it around anymore. He's gotten used to its hallucinations rather quickly.

“What’s with the face?”

Stiles blinks, shakes his head. “What? What face?”

“The sad one.” Theo props his arms on the handle. “Is my presence that depressing?”

Scoffing, Stiles shoots a look into the shopping card. Call him kooky but he honestly expected more from a football player with Theo’s body. But apparently, someone rests on their supernatural metabolism. “Your diet is depressing.”

“I can cook.”

“Water?” Stiles quirks a brow. “And I think you mean _burn_.”

There's a moment during which Theo simply stares at him. Eventually, he shakes his head, grinning again. “You have quite the mouth on you.”

“If I got a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I'd be richer than I already am.” He smirks as Theo barks out a laugh, then turns back to the bananas. They aren’t exactly his favourite fruits but it’s the thought that counts. Truth be told, he wants to push Theo closer and closer to the edge until the tight hold he has on his control finally breaks and he takes what he obviously wants. It’s going to be extremely satisfying when they finally reach that point.

A hand appears at the small of his back, and Theo leans in close enough that his lips brush against the shell of his ear. There’s also the case of the belt buckle prominently pressing into his ass causing his brain to leap to extraordinarily awkward conclusions. “Wanna know a secret?” His voice has no right to sound this husky. None at all.

“Hm?” Stiles tries his hardest to act unfazed but as he wants to move and put the bananas in the shopping card, Theo grabs his hip. This guy brings dramatic to a whole new level – and it works, even though Stiles knows it shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t. He's done this more than enough. He's been on both sides and yet- _and_ _yet_.

Theo chuckles quietly. “I’m going to make you scream my name today.”

 _Oh god._ Where does he take his confidence from? And why is his body more than happy to react exactly the way Theo aims for? Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as if that would dissolve the heat creeping up his neck. The nogitsune hiccups with laughter which makes it horribly hard to concentrate on anything else but how embarrassed he is. He doesn’t understand why words he’d normally be annoyed by now make him weak in the knees. Part of him already considers dragging Theo into the customer restroom and say _fuck it_. Luckily, the rational part of him prevails. He swallows around the dryness in his throat then turns and faces Theo. His smirk tells him everything he needs to know. He’s monitoring his chemosignals and very likely heard how desperately his heart wanted to jump out through his throat. Typical werewolf. Whatever else he is, that's the dominant part. 

“You think so?” Stiles scratches all the pieces of composure together he still possesses.

Theo curls his fingers around his jaw, thumb caressing his cheekbone. “I know.” His skin is soft despite the constant workouts, more benefits from supernatural healing, probably.

Stiles juts his chin in the air. “Then you better shape up.”

“’cause you need a man?”

Whatever reply Stiles has expected, it certainly wasn't a Grease reference. He cracks up despite himself, unsure if he laughs because of the nervous energy or something entirely else. But he can’t really help it nor stop as the laughter painfully echoes in his skull or tugs at his stitches. Something inside him cracked open, and, fuck, he’d lie if he pretended, he hates everything about it.

When his laughter fades to a chuckle and Stiles’ eyes find Theo’s, it’s almost as if the air around them changes. It vibrates and burns and shifts and before Stiles realises what is happening, Theo leans towards him. Or perhaps Stiles does. It’s hard to tell a difference. But when their lips connect, there is such force behind it that he has to grab Theo’s shoulders to keep from smacking into the fruit stand at his back. He can taste a sudden spark of nervous energy, then Theo pulls back probably misinterpreting the action. It would be his chance to get out of the situation. Easy as can be. But he doesn’t. He curls his fingers into Theo’s collar and pulls him close again. He’ll just have to rein him in. That’s all there is to it.

Stiles smiles. The eagerness he is faced with is as adorable as is it surprising. Theo acts as if the overly confident words he’s been spitting moments ago came from a completely different person. Smirking, Stiles pecks his lips. Softly. Briefly. Then does it again. Longer this time. This shouldn’t be as addicting as it is. Not at all. But kissing him makes _sense._ Oddly enough. He closes his eyes, moves his lips against Theo’s and doesn’t even fight it when the world slowly fades away. There’s no hesitation as he opens his mouth and when Theo strokes his tongue with his own, Stiles understands what the nogitsune meant with ‘it’s supposed to feel good’.

 

His grocery bag hit the floor with a _thud_ the second they entered his apartment. Honestly, he barely remembers what he’s bought in the first place. Stiles was too busy slamming Theo against his front door. There’s no grace or built up to it, just eagerness and determination. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and Theo didn’t exactly complain when he opened his belt buckle, pulled his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement before kneeling in front of him. He half expected a stupid comment á la ‘told you people drop to their knees for me’. But everything Theo said was _fuck_ when his brain caught up with the plan.

The tiny encouragements leaving his lips in the beginning stopped shortly after Stiles wrapped a hand around his dick and sucked the tip in his mouth. This isn’t by far the first time he went down on someone. He’s learned the ins and outs, is aware of the little things - yet he feels like he’s doing it for the first time. He’s dying of nerves and holding on to Theo’s thigh seems more like something he needs to do to keep himself grounded than a place he could dig his nails in in case someone gets too lost in their pleasure. Everything about his behaviour is ridiculous. He _knows_ he’s great at it, has heard it countless times. But he wants Theo to feel better than good, and he wants Theo to tell him; he _needs_ Theo to tell him.

When his moans quiet, nervous energy slams back into every fibre of his body and Stiles finds himself looking up. Theo stares down at him, mouth open, cheeks flushed, panting – and _fuckin hell_ he looks at him in a way that sets his skin ablaze. A whimper escapes him. He’s burning up from the heat in Theo’s gaze alone. The simple thought of him touching him makes his dick twitch in his pants. He’s craving a reaction, any reaction. He needs _too much_ to wrap his mind around it. This whole thing overwhelms and intimidates him all at once. But Theo is either very observant or Stiles too obvious because he reaches out, cups his cheek, and says, “I fucking knew it.” His voice is wrecked, something between a moan and a sound someone does who hasn’t spoken in forever. He continues anyway, “I fucking knew you’d feel perfect.”

Stiles whines low in his throat as Theo curls his hand into his hair. Once, he tugs at his strands, something that seems more like a muscle spasm than an actual attempt of moving his head. He wonders how that might change if he knew what Stiles can do. It takes nothing more than this tiny display of Theo respecting inexperience that doesn’t exist for Stiles’ idiotic insecurities to vaporize. Fuck the validation and praise, he wants Theo to forget how to form words – which seems impossible to achieve now that he’s started; and honestly, Stiles never thought dirty talk would make him _this_ excited. Today really is a day he learns a lot about himself.

“ _God_ ,” Theo breathes, “your fucking mouth.”

The way he sounds sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine. For a second, he considers saying _then fuck it_ but refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls back and sucks on the tip as he lets go of Theo’s dick to rest both hands on his thighs. His gaze flicks down as he licks the length of it, then back up as he takes it back in his mouth. Theo never looks away, not once, and when he wets his lips Stiles has to close his eyes for a second to get his wits back. Holy shit. Holy _fucking_ shit. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is. _He_ shouldn’t feel as hot as he does. But it is and he does, and he wants Theo to be satisfied so bad it should probably concern him.

He’s never been like this before.

Stiles shifts his weight on his knees, whimpers quietly as his own dick moves against the fabric of his boxers. He’s hard, every fibre of his body is burning up and he’s not quite sure if he should be embarrassed about his reaction or totally fine with it; he needs to do something before he’s back in his head because that’s not going to help either of them. Breathing in through his nose, he locks eyes with Theo. When he breathes out, he lets his dick slide further into his mouth. Its tip hits his throat. His fingers twitch at the back of Theo’s thighs at the unpleasant feeling of his gag reflex setting in. His eyes water, yet the fire in his gut only grows. Stiles moves away only a little, eyes still locked on Theo’s before breathing through it, opening his throat and taking the rest of it.

Theo makes a sound as if Stiles punched him and the back of his head slams against the front door. Pride curses through his body, feeding the heat in his gut. _Hell yeah_. But his excitement deflates a bit as the fingers in his hair tighten to a point that’s almost painful. Theo keeps him frozen in place and his hips rock once, then twice before he pulls him off and lets go of his hair. Stiles gasps, coughs, struggles a moment to get air back into his lungs. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he thinks right as Theo says it out loud and adds, “fuck, _fuck,_ sorry.”

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shut up,” is all he says before he sucks Theo back into his mouth. A moan cuts through his apartment, and, yeah, he can absolutely get used to this. _Sex should be fun_. This is fun, it’s also fucking hot – and Theo looks at him as if he’s a second away from a heart attack when Stiles flattens his tongue against the underside of his dick before stopping his movements altogether. Seconds trickle by without anything happening leading him to believe the message might not have come across as evidently as he intended. His brain is a muddled mess, so, instead of explaining, Stiles pulls Theo towards him and swallows around his dick.

“Oh my- _fuck_.” But he doesn’t ask if he’s sure, Theo just grabs his hair again and holds him in place. He rocks his hips forward slowly, testing, once, then twice. Stiles is dying with nerves once again when he picks up the pace. He’s choking more often now that he’s not in control any longer. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of it. Theo pulls him off again, gives him time to get his breathing under control. He does, swallows and his hands shift to the front of his thighs when Theo pushes back in. _Just in case_. He’s never done this before, never gave up control so completely, so willingly. His dick twitches in his lap even though his pride tries to tell him something else.

Theo sets up his rhythm, chases his high and Stiles is so fucking on board with the whole thing. Only once he has to shove him backwards to remind him that he needs to breathe. He really hates that his eyes water so much. “Look at you,” Theo breathes while he coughs, fingers digging into warm skin, “taking it so well. _God_ -“ He waits until Stiles has moved back on his own, then locks him in place again, resumes fucking his mouth. The rocking of his hips gets erratic after a while. Every single time, Theo’s dick pushes down his throat it seems to be getting impossibly harder. The words leaving his mouth don’t sound like actual words any longer; aside from the warning that consists of ‘Shit, I’m gonna-‘. Then Theo grows tense all over. Stiles feels his muscles spasm underneath his fingertips as he comes in his mouth with something that could be his name. His hands tighten even further, twitching in his hair before he lets go of him and falls against the door.

Stiles swallows, licks his lips and smirks while taking in Theo’s blissed out expression. It takes a few seconds until he’s seemingly gathered his composure again. His eyes find Stiles’. He chuckles as he stares at him for a few seconds. There’s an absent look on his face, almost like he’s not quite sure where he is and what happened to him. At least that appears to be the case until Theo clumsily reaches for him and yanks him to his feet to crash their mouths together. He moans as if tasting himself on Stiles’ tongue is the best thing that ever happened to him. “And here I thought-“ Theo nips on his bottom lip, teeth almost a bit too sharp. “Here I _thought_ ,” he repeats pressings his lips to Stiles’ throat, “you’re hard to get because you’re innocent.”

“That’s a little judgemental, don’t you think?” _Oh god_ , is that his voice? Fuck. He walks backwards, staggering a little as Theo dresses again. Sitting down would be cool. Or laying down. Or anything really that helps his legs out a bit because god knows they don’t work properly right now. Neither does the rest of his body for that matter. He’s uncomfortably hard and he needs to come like right now but he’s not quite sure how to bring this up. How does it work? Does he ask? Does he do it himself? _Shit_. For having a lot of experience with sex, Stiles has not a single clue how everything around it works. He can practically hear the nogitsune say ‘that probably says something about you, ototo.’

He squeezes his eyes shut and startles when Theo wraps an arm around his waist. “Where to?” A chuckle ripples through his body and he bites his earlobe. “We’re not done yet.” _Well_ , that at least eases him past the awkward question of how this is going to continue. But his nerves flare back up, submitting his body to an awkward cocktail of really wanting to come and not knowing how it’ll be with someone who he actually wants to be with. All this, everything he’s doing makes him feel like he’s never done anything at all before. _What the fuck_?

Theo presses his mouth to his neck, sucking skin between his teeth as he opens the button and zipper of his jeans. “Shoes off,” he demands brushing a finger through his happy trail teasingly.

Stiles purses his lips but works his shoes off regardless. To be fair, the only reason he doesn’t put up a fight is because he really would like to work on this heat, because he’s still burning up and every piece of fabric is too much. His legs are a mess when he steps out of his clothes, but Theo’s is at his side, holding him close and upright, leading him to the couch. He presses their mouths together for a second. “Lay down.” It’s an instruction he follows all too gladly. Stiles’ nerves are even more on edge than before and being confronted with sheer confidence is totally not helping. Although he wishes it would because this puts him too far out of his element – and he’s not happy about it.

Theo sits down next to his hips, caresses his thighs with one hand. “Why so nervous?”

“I’m not,” Stiles snaps instantly and pushes his chin forward stubbornly. A thumb swipes over his tip. He jolts as if shocked and Theo wraps his fingers around his dick. The heat doesn’t get better. It gets worse. But it’s a good worse. A _really_ good worse. Stiles allows himself to relax a little, even though his nervous energy has him still in a tight grip. He can’t help it. This is nothing like his past experiences. Not for a million dollars would he have let anyone get close to his dick because sex was never about pleasure, it was about getting the job done. And whatever the nogitsune did, the sensations don’t come close to this – to Theo’s fingers around his dick. There’s heat building and a hand on his throat that doesn’t squeeze but makes sure to keep him where he is. That he gets off on rougher treatment is probably the least surprising thing of this encounter.

Theo plays him like a fiddle, like he knows his body inside out. He doesn’t, can’t. Maybe he’s just that good. Maybe supernatural senses help with the whole being great at sex thing. Either way, Stiles is about a hundred percent sure he’ll melt before he reaches his climax. “If you sound like that with my hand around your dick, I can’t wait to hear you when I’m inside you,” Theo tells him, sounding a little out of breath himself – almost as if it’s Stiles’ hand around his dick instead of the other way around.

He can’t- he needs to-

“What?” Theo’s asks, thumb pressing against his jaw. “What do you need?”

 _Great_ , he’s not shutting up now either, is he? Stiles’ body contorts on the couch, and the muscles in his thighs tighten. “Theo,” he mewls instead of giving an answer. It’s not like he has to spell out what he needs. “ _Theo_.”

“I’m here,” he says and kisses him, filthy and hard, tongue fucking into his mouth in tune with the movements of his hand. Stiles’ heart slams against his ribs with the clear intent of fleeing from this fire in his veins and muscles and _everywhere_. His hand finds the nape of Theo’s neck. His nails dig into the skin there until Theo hisses, pulls it off and intertwines their fingers instead. He presses their foreheads together then, jerking him off faster, whispers things against his mouth; how good he sounds, how beautiful he looks, and ‘come for me, babe, come on.’

For a moment, it’s like something in his brain shorts out. He arches his back when he comes all over Theo’s hand. His body vibrates, buzzes and the muscles in his lower belly and thighs spasm.

 _Fuck_.

His world still feels quite unreal, like someone wrapped his mind in cotton wool and overdosed him on sugar. He hears a quiet chuckle before Theo leans down to steal another quick kiss. “God, I love listening to you,” he admits in a low voice. “I need to record you. Your voice alone is-“

Stiles clasps his hand over his mouth, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Shut _up_. You got what you wanted. You can stop schmoozing me.” His _voice_. This is seriously something else. Holy shit. It’s not sounding sexy, that’s for sure. In fact, he sounds like he’s just survived a terrible inflammation of his vocal cords. He’s been there, so he knows that.

Theo rolls his eyes and pushes his hand away. “You think I worked that hard for one time? You won’t get rid of me that easily, Stiles.” This reply is what the job needs but not really what he wanted. His stomach drops at the sudden realisation that he’ll have to kill somebody else he actually enjoys being around. Someone he _likes_. It really is karma, isn’t it? “What is going on with you?” Theo draws his eyebrows together, and he sits up straight, but his hands don’t leave his body. His left plays with Stiles’ fingers, his right caresses his lower belly, gently, softly, almost absentmindedly. “You have terrible mood swings.”

“I’m a teenager, what do you expect?” _I’m supposed to kill you, excuse me while I scold myself for being a complete idiot who should’ve changed his plans the second I realised I was getting attached._

“I don’t know. I just-“ Theo stops suddenly, gaze darting away from his face. _What the hell?_ But then he notices where his hand has wandered, feels a finger tracing the cross etched into his skin.

His own reaction takes him completely by surprise. He flinches, slaps Theo’s hand away as sudden fear explodes in his chest, followed by a tidal wave of anger. “Don’t-“

“What is that?”

“Don’t _do that_ , all right?” Stiles isn’t exactly sure where this comes from. His scars have never bothered him. He _used_ them to his advantage, showed them when necessary. Jordan knows about them, the sheriff does as well. It’s a shield, his own pride; ‘ _look what I survived’_. But for some reason, he doesn’t want Theo to see. He doesn’t want him to know. Because deep down he knows that if he were to ask, he wouldn’t be able to lie. The other boy has gotten too close already. If he sees _that_ -

“Okay.” His voice is soothing, quiet, understanding. “It’s okay, I’m sorry.” Theo reaches for a blanket, tosses it over Stiles ignoring the mess on his sweater. Like it matters. Like he fucking _cares_. He pulls the blanket over him and his legs, up to his chest. “I didn’t mean to.” Theo sits down next to him, not too close but not far enough away to give the impression of distance between them. His blue eyes search his face for something.

Stiles doesn’t apologise, and he sure as hell isn’t going to give him an explanation. When he lifts the blanket for Theo, he doesn’t look at him either. They are both silent as Theo moves closer, curls his arms around Stiles' shoulders. They remain silent when Stiles leans into him, head on his chest glaring at the bag of groceries as if that’s at fault for his situation.

This isn’t life fucking him over. This isn’t karma either. It’s his own godforsaken stupidity that gets him into situations like this. Natural selection happens for a reason, and, truth be told, Stiles is surer than ever that he managed to trick it somehow. _Fake it till you make it_. Apparently, that worked for him.

Fuck everything. Seriously.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated! <3


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